Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HANNAH
This is wrong.
This is really fucking wrong.
And yet I’m doing it anyway.
When my grandfather called this afternoon, demanding an answer, I was transported back to a time when I never had a choice. It was their way or the highway, and I was reminded of that at every opportunity, which is how I found myself saying I would meet Trent Bradley.
First of all, what kind of name is that? I can tell he’s a dick just from the double first name. Then I made the mistake of googling him.
What a douche.
A partner at one of the biggest law firms in New York who is not afraid to make it known what he thinks about women.
He’s on record saying he expects any woman in his life to sit at home and wait on him hand and foot. To be available for sex at any time of the day, even if she’s not in the mood. And to bear him six children.
Yep. Six.
I don’t even know if I want one child, and this guy is out here thinking I’ll give him six?
Just the thought makes me want to turn around and go home. To call Asher and have him come over because he would never treat me like I’m only good enough to pop out kids and be nothing more than an available hole.
I climb out of the car my grandfather insisted I take to dinner, because no granddaughter of his would arrive to such an important evening in a taxi or Uber.
“I’ll wait around the corner, Miss Malone,” the driver says from the front seat, and I say a quick thanks before making my way to the restaurant.
A Michelin Star French restaurant with a menu full of things I have no interest in eating should have been my first warning before I decided to do a little more digging, but I had no choice in where we met, just like I’d have no choice in anything else if I allowed this sham to go ahead.
Which it won’t be.
I’ll smile and be polite, make small talk about things neither of us cares about, and at the end of the night, I’ll tell him that there was no spark and thank him for a nice evening. If all goes well, I’ll be tucked up in bed with my book by ten.
“Can I help you?” The ma?tre d’ asks, his eyes moving over the simple black dress I chose for the evening. It flatters my curves while remaining modest, and it’s a staple in my closet for anything that involves my family.
“I’m meeting Trent Bradley,” I reply with a polite smile.
If there’s one thing I learned growing up surrounded by people who lived to drag me down, it’s how to be nice to anyone, even when they’re an asshole.
His brows lift slightly, clearly surprised that I would be meeting a man of such caliber, but he quickly turns, indicating for me to follow him.
We reach the far side of the restaurant quicker than is comfortable in these heels, but he wasn’t waiting for me, and despite his judgment, I can never bring myself to be rude, even when someone deserves it.
Trent spots me, dragging his eyes over my body in a way that has my skin crawling before he pushes himself to his feet to greet me.
“Thank you,” I say quietly to the ma?tre d’.
“Hannah, it’s lovely to meet you at last. Your grandfather speaks very fondly of you.”
Lie.
No one in my family has a single nice thing to say about me. I’ve been a disappointment since the day I came out of the womb without a penis, and they take any opportunity to tell people exactly that.
“It’s nice to meet you, Trent.”
He leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek, and I force myself not to flinch at the contact.
I shouldn’t be here.
I should be home with Asher.
And I certainly shouldn’t have come without telling my boyfriend what was happening.
God, I’m the worst.
Maybe my family is right to think that of me.
Trent moves to pull my chair out for me, and I carefully sit, folding my hands in my lap while he moves back to his seat.
“I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for you,” he informs me, explaining why there’s no menu sitting at my place at the table.
“Oh.” The response catches us both off guard. I know better than to make a comment on such things, but how much of a dick do you have to be to order for someone you’ve never met? “Thank you. I’m not sure if my grandfather told you, but I don’t eat red meat.”
He stares at me across the table as if I’ve sprouted a second head. “Why the hell not? You’re not one of those animal rights people, are you? Because you know they’re bred to be eaten, right?”
I open my mouth to respond, my chest tightening because I know exactly how this conversation is going to go.
I’ve had it with my family enough times to practically recite it as it happens.
“It makes me sick. Red meat can be difficult for the body to break down and digest, and my doctor and I made the choice to cut it from my diet almost a decade ago.”
He stares across the table at me, likely trying to reformulate his opinion on the situation.
People who think they know better about literally every single topic always think they can change your mind on something.
“Obviously, you need to see another doctor. No respectable medical professional would ever tell you not to eat something that’s so good for the body.
I’ll make you an appointment with my guy. ”
I shake my head. “No, thank you. I’m quite happy with my diet the way it is.”
“Well, you could certainly do to lose a few pounds, so you should think about making some changes.”
My mouth drops open in surprise. He really just said the quiet part out loud. It’s not the first time a man has commented on my body without being asked, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but that doesn’t make it any less shitty to hear.
I’m saved from responding when a plate is carefully placed in front of me, complete with a large piece of steak.
I press my lips together as I try to decide how to navigate this.
I should just stand up and leave, because in the space of five minutes, the man has insulted me a dozen times, and I have no interest in sitting here being berated by a stranger. But if I do that, I’ll never hear the end of it.
When I spoke to my grandfather earlier, I made it clear that I was not doing this more than once.
I agreed to one dinner, with one person he thought might be a suitable match, and after that, I was done.
If I don’t look to make a genuine effort, he’ll demand I have another dinner, and another after that, and it will be a never-ending cycle.
Trent doesn’t bother apologizing for ordering me a meal I can’t eat, instead jumping straight into his own.
I push my plate to the side and pick at the side salad while thinking about what I have at home that I can make quickly because I’m going to be starving by the time this ends.
“So tell me about yourself, Hannah,” Trent says, his attention split between the plate in front of him and the waitress in the tight dress that keeps passing us.
Did I mention he doesn’t believe in monogamy when I did my roundup of what makes this guy a jerk?
“I graduated Yale last year with my master’s in economics, and since then have been working for myself, managing clients’ stock portfolios and business opportunities.
I’ve been at capacity for clients for the last six months and have at minimum tripled their investments in that time,” I tell him proudly and revel in the way his brows rise in surprise.
“That seems like a lot of work.”
“It is,” I agree. “But I love it. It keeps my mind busy, and I love a challenge.”
“What about when you have children?”
“I don’t know if I want kids,” I admit. “But I’m only twenty-three. I have a long time before I have to make any hard decisions.”
Once again, Trent stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, and I press my lips together to stop myself from laughing.
“Of course you want kids. You’re a woman. It’s literally what you were made to do.”
I carefully arrange my fork on the plate in front of me, giving up any farce of eating the rabbit food. “That’s an incredibly outdated and harmful stereotype you have there.”
“No, it’s fact.”
“But it’s not.” I push myself to my feet. “I think it’s best if we call it here. It’s very clear we aren’t compatible, and I don’t want to waste either of our time.”
Rage flares to life in his dark eyes, the switch flipping from polite to angry so quickly I’d have whiplash if I hadn’t been expecting it. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Yes, I am.” I turn to leave, ready for this entire evening to be over, but I barely get a step away before rough fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me back so roughly my shoulder jars.
A gasp of pain falls from my lips as Trent settles me against his front, his hold on my wrist only getting tighter.
He’s trying to hurt me because he’s proving a point. Get with the program or get hurt. That’s how it is with men like him, and what I should have expected the second I stood up.
“Get your hands off me,” I snap.
“No, you will sit your ass down and finish your meal, and then at the end of the evening, you’ll be coming home with me.”
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his demand when a much larger body towers over us, sending my heart into my throat at the sight of him.
It’s been almost five years since I last saw Rowan Cane, but as I stare up into his furious eyes, it doesn’t even look like a single day has passed.