The Marriage Contract (Anderson Brothers)

“I know.” She smiled.

“Just keep it in mind,” I said. “You could always get a place up here, too. I’m sure Tom would spring for it up front if we could distract him long enough with some stock news to get at his wallet.”

Mom laughed. “You silly boy,” she said. “Don’t talk about my Tommy like that. Now when is that pizza coming? I’m starved.”

2

Chloe

I slammed the trunk a little harder than I thought I did, and it popped back up and hit me on the chin.

Of course. That was how this was going to go. I was going to knock myself out before I could leave my parents’ house for good, thereby completely confirming that I was useless and needed to be mothered for the rest of my life.

Still woozy from smacking myself, I shut the hood firmly but gently and walked around to the driver’s-side door. Looking back at the house one last time, I sighed. I had grown up in that house. My cousin and I had spent years playing in that yard, running through the halls and having dinners in the dining room, sleepovers in the bedroom.

Granted, we were only able to do that when Mom and Dad weren’t home. When they were off doing one of their wealthy socialite parties that children were expressly not invited to, then we were allowed to be children. But when they were around, there were expectations. Ways to walk or talk. Things that we could talk about. Things that were forbidden.

Like wanting to live a normal life.

My parents wanted control of every aspect of my life, not for any other reason than how it reflected on them. They didn’t care if I was happy. As far as they were concerned, no one was happy unless someone else was suffering. Their happiness came from the jealousy of others. Their motivations came from jealousy of others still. Everything was about power. Money equaled power. Words equaled power. Even marriage. Marriage equaled power, too.

Which was the source of our fight. I did not want to marry Adam Ryan, the son of one of my father’s business partners. My insolence enraged them.

On paper, it was perfect. He, like me, had been raised wealthy and powerful and somewhat famous. We were roughly the same age. Our fathers’ companies were chummy, and if they were to combine one day, they would be one of the most powerful in the world. People talked about us as if we were a couple when we had only met a few times. There was an expectation.

I hated Adam Ryan.

He was a smarmy, sneaky, cheating bastard. Everyone knew it in our social circles, as little as I paid attention to that scene. He was often stepping out on whatever girlfriend he had with the first pair of fake boobs to give him attention at a bar. It was no shock when he did it to his wife, too. He was already divorced, with two kids he never saw other than for publicity stunts. Somehow, despite his ex-wife being a saint for putting up with him as long as she did, she was the bad guy in the media. All the blame went to her for being cold. Nothing could ever make Adam Ryan look bad.

His family made sure of it. They paid the papers to print it.

The public thought he was this great guy and that his wife was this terrible ice queen. That he was a loving father who was being kept from his children, despite never taking her to court for custody. That he had a dazzling smile and a way with clients, when really, he was a sleazeball and bullied people under threat of burying their company if they didn’t agree to his one-sided deals.

I wouldn’t be caught dead walking down the aisle with him, and I told my parents that. They responded by laughing at me. Ridiculing me. My father warned me not to be a disappointment like my cousin was. Not to be a loser like Hannah.

Yet, as far as I was concerned, Hannah had it all. She had sent me pictures and emails of her new family. Her husband was a tall, handsome man who owned a bar in Portland, and they had a baby now. She was happy, truly happy, and she told me if I ever needed to get away, to call her. She would be there.

I was about to test that sentiment.

“Hello?” Hannah asked on the other end when she picked up.

“I stopped arguing with them,” I said by way of greeting. “I just waited for them to leave and packed my stuff. I’m looking at the house right now for the last time, and then I am driving to Portland.”

“Trust me, you won’t miss it. Just drive away,” she said. “Call me when you’re out of LA. I don’t want you driving in that traffic and talking at the same time.”