Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  I smother a laugh. “Well. Yeah. I’m half relieved and half unhappy. I wish it didn’t have to come to this.” I grow sober. “All he had to do was give me the credit I deserve.”

  And he still hasn’t. Maybe he’s been super busy, but part of me is petty and resentful that he’s ignoring me.

  Court links our fingers. “He wasn’t going to do that until you did things his way. And I know something about controlling parents. My dad has been pressuring me forever to be part of Blackwood Energy, even though he knows it isn’t what I want. He’s used everything at his disposal. Thank God he doesn’t have the money angle to use anymore.”

  And his mother’s been pushing him to cater to his father’s whims for her benefit. Suddenly I feel bad about complaining. At least my mom’s supportive.

  He adds, “I think it’s gutsy you stood up for yourself against Steve and quit. Not everyone would have done that.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I open the door, Nijinsky is the first to greet us with loud, high-pitched barks. Her fine fur quivers every time she yelps. Court scratches behind Nijinsky’s ears with a soft smile.

  “You’re here!” Mom says, coming out with an apron on. “Oh, honey, congratulations! I’m so happy for you.” She kisses my cheek. “Hello, Court. So good to see you again!”

  “Hey, Esther.” He grins.

  “Come in, come in. Curie and Joe just got here.”

  We go to the living room and say hi. Then I start toward the kitchen to keep the champagne chilled for later. Curie notes the label and lets out a small shriek. “Is that Dom Perignon?”

  I flush with pleasure tinged with a teeny bit of embarrassment at the lavish way Court is trying to celebrate with my family. “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” Curie turns to Court. “Great choice.”

  “Only the best for my girl.” The words slip out easily, and my face heats some more. He winks at me.

  “Where’s Dad?” I say. He isn’t always down here when we arrive, but surely he heard us come in. Part of me wonders if he’s planning on staying “busy” and skipping dinner to avoid acknowledging my text.

  “In his office,” Mom says, then turns to Court. “We’re having pot roast again. It’s Pascal’s favorite,” she says, her tone slightly apologetic.

  “Awesome! I love your pot roast.”

  That earns him a motherly smile and twinkle. I go over to Court and hold his hand. “I think Mom loves you,” I whisper into his ear. “She never worried about what my exes thought about a Saturday dinner menu.”

  He kisses the back of my hand. “Only an idiot would complain about a great home-cooked meal. And I love her too. I love it that she’s so supportive of you.”

  Warmth swells inside me, and I wish we could be alone so I could show him how much that means to me.

  Dad finally shows up, clumping down the stairs. His steps seem heavier than usual—or is it just my smug imagination?

  His University of Chicago shirt hangs loosely around his lanky shoulders. The sight sends a pang through me. He bought it when I got accepted, saying he wanted to show off how smart his girl was. But that didn’t last long, did it?

  I’m not the only one who notices the shirt, judging by the tight pursing of Mom’s mouth or the faint disapproval crossing Curie’s eyes before she looks away. Suddenly I’m pissed off. He doesn’t get to wear that shirt after having sabotaged me for four years.

  “Good. Everyone’s here,” Dad says casually, like he doesn’t notice anything’s off. “Pot roast smells incredible, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks.” Mom’s smile is a bit forced, tension around her lips.

  “Hi, Dad,” Curie and I say in unison.

  “Hello, girls.” Dad’s face is impassive, and he isn’t looking at anybody in particular. It’s almost like he’s avoiding making eye contact with anybody. “Welcome, Joe. Court.”

  I wait for Dad to say something more. Everyone else apparently does too, because they’re all quiet. But he doesn’t. And that cuts so deeply. It’s like he simply refuses to accept good things happening to me because they aren’t what he wants for me.

  “Well, let’s eat,” Dad says, rubbing his hands together. “The food’s ready, right?”

  “Yes, and Court brought champagne to toast.” Mom’s voice is even, but that’s not always a good sign. She grows calmer as she gets unhappier or more upset.

  She leads us all into the dining room like a queen and her entourage, Joe carrying the pot roast, Curie with a tray of champagne flutes and Mom herself carrying the Dom. Instead of handing the bottle to Dad, she gives it to Court. “You do the honors.”

  Dad’s glare hits Mom and Court. No sympathy from me, though. Mom wouldn’t have dissed him if he hadn’t done it to me first.

  Court smiles. “Sure.” He dexterously pops the cork. Curie places the flutes in front of him, and he pours for everyone. There’s enough for six with careful portioning. But the petty side me thinks Dad doesn’t deserve a sip of the premium champagne.

  Everyone stands around the table. Mom looks at Dad expectantly. “Darling?”

  This is his chance to redeem himself. And I so want him to say something nice, so I’m not disappointed any further.

  We all pick up our flutes. He raises his and says, “To Pascal and her bright future.”

  Seriously? Would he kill him to say something about my new job?

  Court is giving Dad a level, expressionless stare, and I place a hand on his arm. I don’t want to get into a huge fight in front of everyone over what Dad said and did. Maybe later I’ll confront him and get it out of the way.

  The dinner starts once we’re seated. Mom serves, although…is she giving Dad the smallest portion of pot roast? She certainly gives Court a plate piled with food.

  Thankfully, the rest of the dinner proceeds normally. By that, I mean Court, Mom, Curie, Joe and I chat, while Dad eats silently with an intense focus. Maybe he needs some time to come to grips with the reality that his daughter has a mind and life of her own. But does it take this long?

  Mom asks me about the interview, and I tell everyone all about it. I’m proud of how I never faltered throughout it all.

  “How nice,” Dad says finally. “Although it is surprising that Gavin interviewed you himself. And only the one round, rather than two or three.”

  I shoot him a sharp look. “Does that really matter?”

  “I’m just saying that’s generally how interviews go. If I didn’t know better, I’d say somebody pulled some strings on your behalf.” The smile he gives me is as sharp as a lance, and well aimed.

  “Well, I don’t know him at all,” I say, furious he’s trying to diminish my new job. “And I don’t know anyone who’d stick his neck out for me like that.”

  Dad’s gaze flicks to Court.

  Court raises both hands, palms out. “I had nothing to do with Gavin’s decision. If she didn’t impress him, he wouldn’t have hired her.”

  Dad lets out a grunt, and heat suffuses my cheeks. I grip my fork so tightly that my fist is shaking. This insult is really just too much. If he couldn’t say anything nice, he shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  Court puts a soothing hand on my arm, his gaze back on Dad. “I know it’s hard to admit when you’re wrong, but you could at least be happy for your daughter’s sake.”

  Dad puts down his utensils with a snap of his wrists. “Stay out of this, Court. I only want what’s best for her.”

  “And that’s what? Embarrassing me in front of everyone?” I say. “I’m not a child anymore, Dad. I know what’s best for me, and I can make my own decisions.”

  “To waste your life doing something you aren’t going to enjoy doing anyway? What are you going to do when you want to have children? Do you know that’s the biggest reason women in our profession quit? They can’t work the hours and still raise kids. It simply isn’t possible. Better for you to go into something that won’t get in the way of a family.”

  What the hell? Does h
e think this is what I need to hear right now?

  I put my fork down, too pissed to continue eating. “Really? That’s how it is? Well, maybe, just maybe, if you were more supportive of the women at SFG, they wouldn’t feel like they had to quit their job to have children! Instead of playing into the stereotype, you could create initiatives to make SFG a great place for women. Be a pioneer. But no. Congratulations, Dad, for being part of the problem, not the solution.”

  “Show some respect, young lady,” he says, his eyebrows pinching together ominously. “Especially when you’re in my home.”

  “It’s my home too!” I snap. “I shouldn’t have to put up with your negativity when something good happens to me just because it isn’t what you would’ve preferred.”

  He stares like I’m not making any sense. “This isn’t about me!”

  “It’s all about you!” I stand. “My God. I can’t even have a nice dinner.” My voice is brittle, and tears prickle my eyes. I blink them away. I’ll be damned if Dad is going to see me cry. I won’t give him the satisfaction, no matter how angry and hurt I am.

  Court stands. “You know what, Steve? Maybe we should go if you aren’t happy to see us.” His voice is cold and aloof.

  “That’s not what I meant. Don’t get so worked up—”

  “Then what did you mean?” Mom says, cutting Dad off before I can. “You made it clear you didn’t care about her success. I told you to at least text her, but did you? No, you did not. You couldn’t have been a little gracious? Do you have to make it sound like she only got the job because of her connection to Court, rather than on her own merit? I’ve never been more ashamed.”

  Curie is glaring at Dad balefully, and Joe looks let down by Dad’s attitude.

  Dad presses his lips tightly together. “I’m just looking out for my girl. And Court, I’m disappointed in you for fanning the flames rather than trying to calm Pascal down.”

  Rage coils in my muscles. Cutting words push up, up, up my chest and into my mouth, and I’m sure steam’s coming out my ears right now.

  Court squeezes my hand. “Well, Steve, this isn’t my fire to put out. And why would I bother to fan the flames when you’re doing a great job pouring oil all over it?” He turns to me. “You want to stay, or head home?”

  Dad’s gaze bores into me, willing me to stay put. But I’m done, even though I feel bad about not eating the rest of Mom’s cooking, because I know she put a lot of effort into it. “Home.”

  And I walk out of a family dinner for the first time in my life.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Court

  I follow Skittles out. The balmy air does almost nothing to calm my fury. I didn’t expect Steve to be overjoyed, but for him to be so blatantly hateful…

  Fuck.

  I want to rage, scream and throw things. But that won’t solve anything. It certainly won’t change Steve’s mind.

  We climb into my Maserati. I’m steaming, and so is Skittles. She doesn’t need me for any anger fanning. She needs to forget her shitty dad and be happy she got what she wanted.

  “You know, we should’ve asked your mom to pack us some of that pot roast before leaving.” I need to break the tension somehow. “Now your dad’s gonna get to enjoy it.”

  She snorts. “Ha. He’s probably wearing some right now.”

  I laugh hard at the image, then link our fingers tighter as I drive down the residential road. “I’m sorry I didn’t control my temper better, but he really pissed me off.”

  “It’s okay. I felt the same way. Thanks for standing up for me.”

  I shrug it away. “Was he this infuriating three weeks ago?”

  “Not this bad. Probably because he was smug about me being unemployed.” Suddenly, she laughs.

  I give her a funny look. Is this what happens when you’re at point-of-no-return anger? “What’s so funny?”

  “Dad. He told me you were a perfect catch because you’re young and rich.”

  “Hey, he isn’t wrong. I’m a fantastic catch.” Except I don’t want those to be the only attributes she associates with me. “Besides, I’m not just young and rich. I’m also pretty nice. Good in bed, too. I bet none of your other boyfriends got paid after a one-night stand.”

  She giggles. “I thought you were mad I only left fifty bucks.”

  “That’s all you had on you, so you basically paid me your entire fortune at that time.”

  She leans over and kisses me. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Being wonderful and supportive.”

  I smile. I can’t remember the last time a girl I was dating thanked me for anything. Now that I think about it, they just assumed they were entitled to everything I have because we were dating. And although Skittles is definitely entitled to everything I have, it’s nice to not be taken for granted. “That’s the prerogative of a billionaire. Supporting whoever you want.”

  “Yeah, but it got you on my dad’s bad side. Trust me, he won’t be thinking you’re such a great catch after today.”

  Oh good. That means I’m not the regressive asshole he wants me to be. “Who cares? It isn’t like he and I are going to get married. The only thing that matters is what you think of me.”

  I feel the weight of her gaze as we stop at a four-way intersection. I glance over, wondering if she’ll say something. I know I love her, but does she reciprocate? Don’t women usually feel it before men? At least that’s what all those headlines on Cosmo covers make it sound like.

  I let the car start to inch forward.

  “Court, I—”

  Something flashes in my peripheral vision. I slam on the brakes. “What the fuck!”

  My heart racing, I glare at the car in the four-way intersection. It was my turn to go. I was here first!

  The driver jumps out and Skittles groans. Tom Brockman, the belly-slithering scumbag. What the hell is he doing here?

  I lower my window to give him a piece of my mind. “Hey, dumbass. You were supposed to stop.”

  “But you did, so it’s fine,” Tom says. “Look, I need to talk with Pascal.”

  Skittles coves her eyes.

  “Then you should call like a normal human being,” I say, still pissed.

  “She blocked my number.”

  I snicker. “Yeah, because she’s a normal human being who doesn’t want to talk to bottom-sucking barracudas.”

  Tom ignores me and starts yelling like a lunatic. “Hey, Pascal, you thought about what I told you?”

  “No. And why are you here? Are you stalking me?” She starts to reach for the door.

  I put a hand on her arm. Getting out to talk is exactly what he wants. Staying inside gives a clear message:

  One—he isn’t worth the bother of climbing out of the vehicle.

  Two—we have no intention of lingering to talk.

  Unfortunately, Tom is a bit slow on the uptake. “No, but I know you have dinner with your folks every Saturday. I was waiting to talk to you.”

  More like an ambush.

  He continues, “I’m telling you, you can screw with your dad, and I can make you famous too if you want. You can be the new picture of justice.”

  New picture of justice? By Tom’s definition? I shudder.

  “Justice, my ass!” Skittles says. “You mean the new picture of Dysfunctions R Us.”

  “You know your dad’s guilty!”

  What did Steve do? “What’s he talking about?”

  She rolls her eyes. “He thinks Dad’s guilty of money laundering.”

  “Steve? Ha!” That’s about as likely as me inventing a Star Trek transporter.

  “Exactly. Dad has a lot of faults, but dishonesty isn’t one of them. Doesn’t matter, though, if the journalist is venal enough. Tom wants me to be his source.”

  Oooh… “And you turned him down, but he can’t take no for answer.”

  “Stop trying to influence my source, Blackwood,” Tom says.

  “She doesn’t want to be your an
ything, Brockman,” I say. “And you know what? You stalking my girlfriend is seriously pissing me off.”

  His jaw drops. “She isn’t your girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, she is.”

  “Yeah, I am,” Skittles says. She smiles.

  Tom glares at me. “Stay away from this, or I’ll make you regret it.”

  “How? Got more trashy shit to say about my family?” I ask extra sweetly, even though I’m seething inside at the memory of what he did say, specifically to embarrass us and make money for himself. “My family tolerated your bullshit long enough. The next time—if there’s a next time—will not end well for you.”

  Hands on his hips, he sticks his puny chest out. “I’m a journalist! I’m protected.”

  “I know. So I’m not going to punch you. That’s beneath me”—I study my fingernails—“and I’ll be damned if you get to get my money for pain and suffering and whatever bull crap you throw in my way. But what I can do is sue every publication that buys your articles.”

  His shoulders slouch a little. “You can’t do that!”

  “Sure I can. All I need to do is find the people you write about. They might not have the ability to sue you or the paper, but I do. All I got is money and free time.”

  “But…you can’t do that!” Tom says as though by repeating it, he can convince me.

  I smirk. “That’s the beauty of being a billionaire—doing whatever the fuck I want. And you harassing my girlfriend really makes me want to ruin your career.”

  Tom turns to Skittles. “Tell him to stop being an ass. He’s violating my First Amendment rights.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t think it says thou shalt not be sued.”

  I snort-laugh.

  “You’ve turned into a complete bitch!”

  Maybe I should kick his ass. Nobody calls Skittles a bitch.

  “No. I just know what I want, and what I want is never seeing your face again,” she says, putting a hand on my arm.

  “Hear that?” I say. “She doesn’t want to see your ugly mug again. If you ever show your face or call her or even breathe too hard in her direction, I’m going to do exactly what I told you.”