He rests a hand along the window frame, staring out into the neighborhood. “I could cut you off, you know. All the homes, the cars, everything in your accounts revert back to me.”
He doesn’t realize I’ve only driven one car in the last three years. Or that I barely use any of the other houses. I’m not going to lie and say I don’t enjoy the finer things. But I’m not as much of a slave to them as my father.
“Dad, you can keep your money.” My voice is even, calm. The perfect contrast to my father’s. “I don’t need it.”
I’ve tucked plenty of money away over the years. There are accounts my father doesn’t even know exist. Places he can’t access through bribing bankers like he does with my regular accounts.
“Fine, but then goes all the good you think you do with it also,” he says. The muscles in my face slacken, no longer able to pull themselves up. I’m certain by the smug grin on my father’s face that he has all the assurance he needs. “Yes, right about now you’re realizing you can’t drop a hundred grand on a housing project with only a teacher’s salary.”
I stare at him intently.
All the possible paths I could take in this matter circle about my head in a confusing cluster. I could walk away from my family forever. That’d leave me with enough money to retire and still enjoy many of the comforts I was born into, as well. But there would not be a constant stream of cash flowing, at least not for Derek and Marianne’s charity. Marianne always assures me she’d be fine with the philanthropists who already contribute, but I’ve seen the numbers.
I know better. They need my money to keep moving, to keep building and expanding. They would never really ask me to sacrifice anything for them. But I wouldn’t want to be responsible for putting those dreams on hold.
Then I could give in to my father’s plans. I could marry this harpy of a woman who wants nothing more than the jewels and fancy clothes my father’s money can buy her. I’d be giving in to the institution I’ve despised for so many years, falling into another loveless marriage like my father. Being used only for my connections, denied the passions of real love.
Like my mother.
Only one solution leads me to Aly though. Is she worth risking everything for? My family, my friends and my ability to help others with the resources I’ve been given? If my father disowned me, would that mean I’d never see my mother again?
Now, that is a bargaining chip I’m not ready to gamble with.
“I’ll give you some time to think about my offer,” my father says. His entire demeanor changes. From homicidal rage to placid bravado in seconds.
He knows he has me. Breaking my spirit was always his specialty.
“In the meantime, I suggest you call Chloe and invite her to the gala next month,” he adds and taps a few keys on his cellphone. “That should give you two weeks to find a suitable outfit for the occasion and rekindle some of that old spark. Who knows? Perhaps you’ll discover she’s the love of your life after all.”
Not likely.
“I’ll send your regards to your mother.” The full-weight of his words saws through my chest.
Fine. We can play this little game all he wants. But when my two weeks of “courting” Chloe are up, there will be no marriage proposal. There will be no obligations. And I will be able to see my mother whenever I wish.
Now if only I could devise a plan to make it work.
Chapter Seventeen
Aly
“Ooo.”
Lyndsey stops on her way to the kitchen. Her neck cranes over into my view to stare at me through the mirror. Her eyes rake over my clothing as she does a quick inventory of my appearance. “Is this what a woman scorned looks like?”
Cue the jokes. I get it. It’s the first time I’ve actually dressed up in years. Not counting the club. But desperate times call for desperate measures.
All of our communication so far has been primarily through emails. Any adjustments he needs me to make on my proposal, or notes he has on how to improve, he just sends me a quick command to fix it. There are hardly even any sentiments enclosing it, no salutations or even a “Sincerely, Zach.” Just my name on the top of the email, and his automated signature at the bottom.
Even in class, he does not address me directly. I’m getting the impression the other students think I’m stupid. He ignores anything I have to say. I even threw in a ridiculous analysis for my weekly dream diary entry. One where I’m standing beside the ocean watching the dolphins hurl themselves into the air. Then suddenly, I am overcome by a tsunami of red apples and drown before I can escape.
I spent three pages describing the fake dream itself, then concluded it meant I was hungry.
He gave me an A.
While I shouldn’t be unhappy with the fact that I’m still receiving high marks without him even reading my paper, the lengths he is taking to avoid me are insane. Does he think I’m going to write about the sexually frustrated dreams I’ve been having about him instead? Which surprisingly have subsided.
All I know is I’m not about ready to let Zach cast me aside without fighting for him. He may think he’s doing me a favor, but these last two weeks without him have been torture.