Cruel Beloved

“Is this what you really want?” my mother asks, almost in a whisper. “We can make this go away.”

“I’m right here, Mrs. Star,” Whiskey finally speaks up.

“No, I don’t want you to make it go away. This is what I want.”

“We’re planning the wedding already. The date’s set and will be in a few weeks. We hope to see you both attend.”

I try not to roll my eyes at him interjecting and telling them that.

“No way! You don’t marry someone you’ve just met.”

“I met him a year ago,” I reply. Defending what? I don’t even know.

“You were with Clinton.”

“No. We met after Clinton.”

“You think we should just buy into this? That for some reason you want to get married. You’ve clammed up every time I brought up marriage to you. And what? Now you want it? And this soon? You expect your mother and me to just accept this?”

He’s blackmailing me! I want to scream it as loudly as I can, but I know it’s useless. If I want my father’s reputation saved, I have to suck this up.

“This is what I want. I simply wanted the power to choose the man of my dreams.”

My father nods his head. “Well, at least you picked someone with a good head.”

Ah-huh, now come the compliments.

My father’s face changes, and I know instantly he’s seeing the business side of this, instead of what it should be, a marriage of his daughter to a man who’s not that good.

Father’s cruel in that regard. I see it the minute Father realizes what it will do for his standing and career. Let’s face it, there’s never any regard for what might be best for me.

“What do you need from me?” my father asks.

Whiskey’s hand drops from my side, his comfort, or what I thought was comfort vanishes, and I almost feel the loss.

Almost.

Whiskey’s quiet as he drives me back to my place. We left my parents’ home after being there for a celebratory drink and lunch. They all drank and ate while I sat there trying to work out if I’m dreaming some kind of nightmare or if this really is real.

It can’t be real.

But for some reason, I can’t seem to wake up.

“You aren’t close with your parents, are you? I presumed you were.”

“Well, you presumed wrong,” I say, not even bothering to turn and look at him.

“Do you want to go to your apartment or see your new home?” he asks.

I have no idea where he even lives, nor do I care. I guess it would be smart to see, but right now I’m not in the mood. At all.

My mother stayed wary of Whiskey the whole way through lunch, while my father was milking him for everything he could get out of him. It’s purely a business opportunity for him, and Father will take full advantage of it.

“Home,” I say.

“You’ll have to see it soon, Carla.”

“Not right now,” I argue back.

He slows down, and I watch as my apartment comes into view. My hand is on the handle, ready to leave as soon as he pulls to the curb, and that’s when I hear the click of the lock.

“Why are you in a rush, Carla?”

“I just need to get out of this car.”

“Away from me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, not even bothering to lie.

“Carla, maybe stop with the hurt, rich-girl act.”

I swing my head around. “Hurt, rich-girl act?” I ask, the words sounding bitter as they leave my mouth.

“Yes. You were raised with money. You have money. Let’s not pretend that you aren’t a rich girl, rich girl.”

“Fuck. You!” I basically spit at him as I unlock my door.

“You already did that, rich girl.” He smiles, as I slam the door and turn around.

Asshole.

9

Whiskey

Carla’s father has called to make an appointment to see me the next morning—it seems that’s the way he works—while I tried to contact his spoiled, rich girl daughter to organize this wedding. No matter, I will leave it for my personal assistant to do it all. It simply doesn’t matter how much of a temper Carla seems to have or how much she wants to deny the wedding. It will all go through, it will be perfect, and it will happen. Regardless of what Carla does, how she reacts, or how she treats me. I have little care factor when it comes to her rich-girl tantrums.

“You sent a suit to my house. It’s happening then?” Barry steps into my office, wearing an open shirt and black trousers. He looks like he’s ready to go out and get laid. Let’s face it, he probably is.

“Yes. Wear it to the party this weekend.”

Barry scratches his chin and shakes his head. “Who else is attending?”

“Business associates. Her family. You.”

“Perfect show then. But will your fiancée be up to play?”

Just as I go to answer him, the door to my office springs open and in struts—yes, struts—my fiancée.