“Do you know what happens if you refuse to marry Lottie?” My grandfather’s yell was so loud it crackled through the speakers.
“Crowne Industries will be fine,” I said. “This isn’t like when Father died. We aren’t on the verge of collapse. Our stock is fine. We don’t need to keep fucking marrying people.”
Grandfather was a greedy fucking asshole, is the truth.
My mother scrambled up from her chaise, wrestling the phone from my hands.
“He’s joking,” she said with a smile.
“I’m not joking.”
Mom pounded the mute button, breathing fire through her nostrils. “You saw what happened with Abigail. He will cut you out. He will give all of your birthright to the bastards.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“You promised to me on your father’s deathbed you wouldn’t let anything happen to this family.”
“I was seven.”
“Do you know how much damn damage control we had to do after Abigail’s rushed engagement fell through?” My grandfather yelled through the speaker. “It’s sloppy. Fucking sloppy.”
Of course I knew.
Damage to his reputation. Damage in the public eye. Suddenly the Crowne was a little rusty.
It was a moment before my grandfather spoke. When he did his voice was calm, cold. “I don’t want to rush a marriage, but I will.”
“You’ll break Lottie’s heart,” my mother tried. “You’ll break my heart. And you will break her heart. You can’t have it, Grayson. You would ruin this family for your selfish desires.”
My mom placed her palm on my cheek, eyes warm in the way I knew meant her next words would be about her desires.
Her wants.
“You should have the marriage of the century, Grayson,” she said. “You’re a king.”
I pulled away and stabbed the button again to unmute the phone.
“I will happily continue my role in this family, but I’m not marrying her. Your greed will destroy our family faster than ending any fucking marriage.”
I ended the call and left the room, hearing my mother scrambling to smooth things with Grandfather.
Time to get my fuck
ing girl.
STORY
* * *
I must have walked in a daze back to Crowne Hall. I hadn’t wanted to leave him, but they didn’t have any clothes for him to come home in. I guess he’d soiled the ones he’d come to the hospital in.
He still hadn’t woken up when I left.
I read and reread my hospice options, each more expensive than the last. All the while my brain spitting out the same thing: Does. Not. Compute.
When Uncle died, who would I have left? No one. Officially, no one. It was such a selfish thing to think after someone gives you that news. What happens to me? Not, oh that must be horrifying, scary, terrible, for them. But What happens to me?
I went through Crowne Hall’s servants’ entrance, passing by rushing servants, until I found Uncle’s room. His clothing consisted of suits and slacks and the occasional turtleneck. I grabbed a bundle of the most comfortable clothes I could find, still dazed.