“I need you to do something for me, Scott. I need you to marry Sydney.”
I couldn’t possibly have heard that right. My father couldn’t have asked me to marry a woman I could barely tolerate. He couldn’t have asked me to marry anyone. That only happened in bad romantic comedies and my life wasn’t fodder for anyone’s entertainment.
“I don’t have time for your jokes, Franklin. It’s been fun. Say hi to Mom for me.”
“This is no joke. The only way to ensure the board won’t tie this up in court for years is if she’s a Blackstone. And aren’t I a lucky son of a bitch––here I am with one past-his-prime son in need of a wife.”
I wasn’t buying it. My old man was a notorious prankster. “Who you calling past-his-prime, old man? And the last thing I need is a wife.”
“Frankly, I don’t care what you need, Scott. You’ll do this for me, or I’ll write you out of the will and the tap gets turned off. You get me?”
“Well played, Darth Vader, but we’re all stocked up on funds here. The ranch has been turning a nifty profit for some time now so go ahead and write me out.” Which was the absolute truth and something I was damn proud of.
“What about your pet project?”
The threat left a chilly silence in its wake. I knew that tone. It was quintessential Franklin Marshall Blackstone going for the kill. “You love that land, don’t you? All the millions and millions of acres you’ve had me buy up over the years. The ones you want turned into a national park. I’ll break it apart and sell it off.”
Adrenaline and a heap of anger burned through my veins. I shot out of my chair and marched to the window, the phone cord stretching as tight as my nerves.
Land preservation was the only thing I truly gave a shit about, and he knew it. My ranch was run responsibly in respect to the environment, an expensive endeavor that required very careful management. Most operations couldn’t afford to work that way. They encroached on federal land which forced wildlife to either retreat or be slaughtered. Buying up the land, placing it in a trust, and turning it into a national park ensured that it remained wild for generations to come.
It was the only leverage he had over me. It was the only thing I’d ever asked of him. A little at a time my father had managed to accrue more open, virgin land than cable giant John Malone, an accomplishment he loved to brag about.
“You bastard––”
“I’m only protecting what’s mine. My family. My business––”
“Do you hear yourself? C’mon, Dad! This has nothing to do with you protecting family. This is you playing God with other people’s lives to suit your needs.”
As much as my father had mellowed over the years, his first inclination was still to subjugate something or someone. It didn’t matter which or who as long as he got what he wanted. That’s who he was in essence. Despite the white hair, he would always be that man, and I didn’t hold any illusions to the contrary.
“Whatever it may be, you will marry Sydney and stay married to her for three years. That’ll give her enough time to prove to the board that she’s the right person to run this company successfully. With the Blackstone name attached and you to back her up, they won’t have a legal leg to stand on.”
Sucking in a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, an exercise I’d learned in an effort to control my emotions and “become a better person.”
“This isn’t the tenth century, Dad. I’m not marrying someone I hardly know to satisfy your hunger for world domination.”
“Have I ever asked anything of you?”
And there was the knockout punch. My parents had never asked anything of me. I’d been left to do as I pleased since graduating business school and pleased myself I had. Panic shifted into a familiar feeling of inevitability. My palms began to sweat knowing he had me by the throat. When my father set his mind to something, not even Atlas himself could move him.
“No,” I conceded, swallowing my pride. “Don’t make me do this.”
“Jesus Christ. Don’t sound so fucking devastated. Marriage is not the worst thing in the world. You might actually like it if you let yourself––”
“I’ll like it as much as I’d like getting gored by one of my prized bulls.”
I rubbed my face, trying to restore feeling. If there was one absolute truth I knew about myself, it was that I had terrible judgement in women. I’d begun to suspect it shortly after growing fuzz on my peaches, and a string of disastrous relationships in my twenties confirmed the notion. I’d pretty much accepted that I was never going to have what my parents had and I was okay with that. Then Charlie and Meghan happened, and the proverbial coffin was nailed shut.