Chapter 13
Dammit.
The last fucking thing I needed was a social call from Mary Quinn Astrid.
I had enough on my plate keeping my mind on work and not on the curve of my new paralegal’s ass in the skirt she was wearing.
It had taken every measure of willpower I possessed to walk away from her last week when every bone in my body was raging to pick her up, toss her over my shoulder, and carry her back to my place where I knew she’d be safe.
Safe, at any rate, from New York’s criminal element. Not safe from me.
At least by giving Captain Raydar those tips I’d been able to secure protection for her until I figured out how to move her into one of my investment properties in a way that no one from the office gossip pool would learn about.
But that was a problem for later. For now, I had to deal with my mother.
Cynthia had managed to block my mother’s numbers, all of them, from reaching my desk and my cell phone in her absence. It was brilliant, or it would have been if Mary hadn’t just shown up with the woman she intended for me to marry.
Then insist I interrupt working on what would quite possibly be the most important case of my career to have lunch at Le Bernardin. The food was good, and I didn’t give a fuck about the cost of the bill.
What I cared about was the cost of this distraction to the case and how it took me away from my new favorite form of torture—watching Eddie work.
Fuck, if that woman knew the things that went through my mind every time she placed the top end of a pen in her mouth while lost in thought, or ran her hand through her hair as she leaned over a book checking a source...
But no, I was here, meeting my supposed fiancée.
Catherine Montague, daughter of Alaster and Courtney. Her father worked in the Financial District, and her uncle was a lord or duke or something or other. This meant that Catherine had the right breeding to help me regain the votes I had lost in my family’s social circles, and she was heavily involved in some philanthropic causes, which meant she would soften how I appeared to everyone else.
Standing next to this beautiful woman who projected an air of constant sunshine and graceful generosity would wipe away the scandal that was my parentage, making me more palatable to the voters to whom it mattered.
On paper, she was perfect. In person, she was mind-numbingly dull.
“I don’t know, Mary, a spring wedding? It’s so soon. People might think there is a reason for the wedding,” Catherine whispered.
“Don’t worry, dear. We will make sure there is a photo of you sipping Dom, and that will silence any rumors.” My mother patted her hand. “We will spin this as the wedding of the century. A young love that is just too impatient to wait. We will sell the story of a whirlwind romance for the ages.”
“When will we make the announcement?” Catherine folded her hands under her chin, leaning in like a child listening to her mother tell a fairy tale.
“I think we should schedule a photoshoot next weekend. That will give me time to arrange a plausible story of when you two met and all of that. I want the photos published in all the best magazines and, of course, the Times and the Herald.”
“No,” I interrupted.
“Oh.” Catherine looked at me, her bright eyes wide. “Do you think the Herald is too conservative? I know you are a Democrat, though I can’t for the life of me imagine why.”
“I don’t care where you publish it. What I’m saying no to is the photo shoot and any other interviews in the next few months. I have work to do.”
“Harrison.” My mother scolded me. That tone didn’t work on me when I was a child. I had no idea what gave her the impression it would work now.
“No, Mary, that makes sense. I can do the interviews and photo shoots. We can spin it so I am the face of this union. The woman who handles everything so her man can get the ‘real work’ done.”
I didn’t think I had ever heard a woman other than my mother say something so sexist in my life. And even then, my mother only said things like that about my sisters.
I made a mental note to check up on Rose soon.
My mother was busy with this wedding, but once it was done, Rose would be in her crosshairs and she wouldn’t have anyone to shield her. Being the youngest was both a blessing and a curse. She’d had buffers growing up, since my siblings and I could take the brunt of my mother’s schemes. But once she was done with us, all her focus would go to little Rose. Though she was born with more fight in her than my mother knew.
“I really don’t mind,” Catherine said.
“Right, well, I am going to powder my nose. You two get to know each other.” My mother stood and headed to the bathroom.
I looked around at the pristine dining room with its white tablecloths, waiters in suits, and over-the-top, ornate floral centerpieces on each table.
“So, did you want to know anything about me before we get married?” Catherine tilted her head to the side and bit her lip. I assumed it was her attempt to look seductive.
She was very attractive, but I felt nothing for her. No lust, no admiration, not even a speck of attraction. She was the type of woman who could have men ready to come in their pants with just a wink. Yet my dick lay flaccid in my pants, completely uninterested.
It was fine. That wasn’t what this was about, anyway.
“Sure. My mother mentioned you are a philanthropist. What charities do you work for?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t work, silly.” She reached over and touched my hand as she threw her head back like it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.
“Then what do you do for those charities?”
“I attend their parties if the theme sounds like fun and there will be people I like there, and I allow myself to be photographed. Then, my assistant will approve any photos that are good enough, and she will put a few of those on my social media. I have a few million followers, so it gets the charities a lot of exposure.”
“I see…” I didn’t see.
“Oh, and if the party is really good, I will have my assistant tell people to donate to whatever their cause is, protecting whaling rights, or fixing ugly children, or protecting third-world children’s rights to work, or whatever. I’m big on supporting kids.”
“Okay, so you really don’t care about the causes?” I chose to ignore the entire children comment. I was far too sober to unpack that.
“I mean, there are a few charities I will never donate to. Anything that supports PETA or goes against animal testing. I refuse to have anything to do with that. I mean, can you imagine the travesty of not testing products on living animals first? What if a brand decided to skip that crucial step, and someone bought a product and had a bad reaction to it?”
Jesus fuck, this woman is the worst.
“But, like, I don’t tell anyone really what I do and don’t support. I like to leave them guessing. It helps me cultivate a sense of mystery. And you never know what is going to be canceled next, so it’s best just to stay quiet and let people guess what you are about.”
“Right.” Was it a bad sign that I was relieved she didn’t want to talk to anyone about her seriously fucked up views? I supposed it didn’t matter, not really. She wasn’t going to be by my side to take interviews. And even if she did end up having to take a few, she could be coached on what to say.
“So, what else did you want to know about me?” She looked down at her now empty wineglass then grabbed the nearest waiter. Literally reached out and grabbed his arm, almost making him drop a plate of seafood pasta. His save was actually impressive.
“You refill this wineglass now and check to see how much longer our food will be. We have been waiting for five minutes. Do you know who this man is and how important he is? I will have you fired if you don’t fix this now.”
To the waiter’s credit, he nodded sagely and poured the wine with one hand, while handing the pasta off to another server. He apologized to Catherine and me, then went to check on the order.
I made a mental note to add another zero to his tip.
“I cannot believe how incompetent people are today,” she said, giving me a look like I was supposed to agree.
“Yes, some things certainly tell you a lot about a person’s competence,” I agreed.
“Do you want kids?” she asked. She answered before I had a chance to. “I want at least four. Two boys, an heir and a spare, of course, then two girls who will make important connections for their brothers. I’ll get pregnant with the heir myself for appearances and then of course use a surrogate for the rest. I think we should start right away. In fact, since we are getting married so soon, I don’t see why we have to wait for the wedding night. We can start practicing now. How about I come over when you are done with work and give you a preview?” She placed her hand on my thigh and tried to move it up.
I grabbed her fingers and returned them to her lap.
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t want children.” I hadn’t even realized the truth of that statement until I said it.
It hadn’t been true until this moment. There was no way I was going to give this woman children. Two boys to preen over and coddle and then two girls to shame and suffocate the individuality out of. She would have been worse than my mother. It could not happen.
“Oh, but your mother said…”
“My mother says a lot of things. I want to make this perfectly clear. This is not a love match, and when we are in private, I have no interest in pretending it is anything other than what it is: a business arrangement. I get a pretty girl that will paint me to be a family man and not a bastard, and you get to be the DA’s wife, and eventually, my political aspirations may elevate you further.”
“Oh…” She sat back, folding her hands in her lap.
“There will be a generous prenup, and if I ever decide to leave office and no longer require the services of a pretend wife, then we will divorce, and you will have adequate money to live how you want and where you want.”
“And if you decide to run for a higher office, requiring more of my time and effort?”
“Then we will negotiate terms before I run.”
“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. “I am worth more. I am far too valuable an asset to be shelved, and if you do have the political aspirations that your mother seems to think you do, then you will need more. You want to project a family man aesthetic, something the middle-American voter will be able to identify with. The child-free lifestyle may be understandable to sophisticated New Yorkers, but if you are going to make me First Lady someday, then you need the potato eaters in Ohio to like you as well.”
She may have been rude and tactlessly abrupt, but she wasn’t wrong.
“So, I propose that we get married and then start trying for a child right away. Also, to really sell this, we will need to meet for lunches and dinners a few times publicly in the next few weeks, and then you will need to be seen at Tiffany’s. My registry is already set up, with not only the ring but a matching necklace, earrings, and bracelet.”
“Excuse me?” She could not be serious.
“We want to really show the world how you feel about me, and PDAs will seem unnatural for you at first, so jewelry is the way to go. We will also plan the engagement and let it slip to a few trusted sources where and when it will happen. Don’t worry about the wedding itself. Your mother and I will handle that.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose as the back of my skull tightened with a pending migraine. “Is that all?”
“No, but it’s enough of a start for now.” She took out her phone and started typing. Then, she smirked down at the screen and laid it on the table, sliding it toward me.
It was open to some social media app, and there was a photo of us sitting next to each other, her hand in mine as she looked up at me adoringly. You couldn’t even tell she was propositioning me and I was removing her hand from my lap.
“How…”
“My assistant is always around.” She smiled and posted the photo to one of her other social media accounts, with a caption that read, “Sometimes you just know.”
The little heart under the caption had a number that was going up faster than I could read it.
“By tomorrow morning, we will be all over the social pages, and there will be at least two dozen interest pieces on us as a couple. There is no going back now.”
My stomach twisted as bile rose in the back of my throat.
She was right.
There really was nothing else I could do. Without my consent, she had actually announced our relationship, and there was no turning back. I could break this entire thing off, but it would do even more damage to my already sullied reputation.
Elections were coming up soon, and I would rather focus on the work that I had to do getting criminals off the street than worry about campaigning. This woman may be an awful human being and an evil genius wrapped in the superficial packaging of a wannabe Barbie doll, but at least I could have her work for me and with me rather than against me.
What was worse was that my mother had already guessed my long-term career goals, and although I might find this woman personally repugnant, she could be an asset on the campaign trail. She had already managed to fool the entire world into believing that she was a philanthropic angel and not the spoiled brat she was showing herself to be.
If I was being honest with myself, I didn’t want a wife.
I didn’t have time for a wife.
That being said, my career dictated that having a wife would be advantageous.
Specifically, a society type that would understand how to act in certain situations, know what was required of her, and what her role actually would be. A society wife would not expect me home for dinner each night. She would know better.
A society wife would not expect me to be faithful, nor would she expect me to have an active role in the raising of our children until they became a certain age. She would understand that I had the final say in anything involving our business and investments, that it was my role to make sure she had everything she needed, while it was her role to actually handle the day-to-day running of the household and our social calendar.
Just because I didn’t find her appealing didn’t mean she wouldn’t look good on the Christmas cards. Once we were wed, I also wouldn’t have to worry about her acting out of turn, because her livelihood would depend solely on mine. This woman would understand that it would be in her best interest to act in my best interest.
A few well-placed clauses in the prenup would also further incentivize her to stay the course and do her job.
I just hated the idea that I’d actually have to spend time with this vapid woman who would probably be more plastic than flesh by the time she was fifty. This entire arrangement had me feeling sick to my stomach, but as my mother had pointed out, it was a means to an end. A means that was expected of me.
So, I kept trying to convince myself that it was the right course. Every time Catherine snapped at a waiter, or she and my mother leaned together and laughed like they were in cahoots—which I guessed they were—I told myself another lie about how she would be good in this role and how, after our children were born, our contact could be limited.
The hour and a half I had allotted for my mother to steal from my day felt like forever. Seconds ticked by into what seemed like hours, and by the time I managed to get back to the office, I felt as though I’d lost half a day’s worth of work and momentum that I couldn’t regain.
For the first time the pressures of my job, career goals, and family name felt insurmountably suffocating.
For the first time since high school, I felt like the choices that dictated my life were out of my hands. It felt like things were being done to me, not by me, and I had lost my control.
When I got to the office, I took the elevator up, hitting the “emergency” button before reaching my floor and taking a moment of complete silence. My hands gripping the metal railing, I did a breathing exercise I hadn’t had to do in years.
Eyes closed, I took a deep breath in and counted to ten. Then slowly let the breath out.
When I opened my eyes, I looked around the empty elevator car for five things that I could see. I saw the beige carpeting under my feet, the golden trim around the buttons, the water stain on the elevator’s ceiling, the stainless-steel panel, and the digital number three above the elevator door.
I took another deep breath and then listed four things I could feel.
The touch of the cold metal from the Rolex Submariner on my wrist; it was not my taste, but my father had given it to me, so I wore it. The soft, warm wool of my Brooks Brothers suit jacket, the tight, noose-like sensation of the tie around my throat, and the cool, stainless-steel railing I was currently gripping that went around the interior of the elevator car.
I took another deep breath, slowly in and out, then concentrated on three things I could hear. I could hear soft music playing; it sounded like pop from the early ‘90s. The whoosh of the other elevator passing mine in the next shaft. And finally, the sudden, shrill ringing of the emergency phone.
Ignoring the phone, I took another deep breath. Two things I could smell. I could smell Catherine’s suffocating perfume still on my jacket and the stale air of the elevator. Whoever had been in here before me had just brushed their teeth or was chewing a very strong mint gum.
I took another deep breath. Finally, one thing I could taste. I could still taste the herb-crusted salmon I’d had for lunch. I tried to focus on that taste, but it faded, and instead, I remembered what her lips tasted like.
Ms. Carmichael’s lips tasted like rich, dark roast coffee and something sweet, like honey, maybe. Or some type of agave syrup, a delicate, natural sweetness that was addicting.
I shook the thought out of my head and answered the screeching phone. The voice on the other end was asking if there was a problem. I answered no, everything was fine, and restarted the elevator.
It had been so long since I’d had to use that anxiety technique, I’d forgotten how effective it truly was. By the time I reached my floor, I felt like myself again. I was stable, steady, and ready to refocus on my work and regain control of my life.
When I turned the corner, that feeling evaporated at the sound of Ms. Carmichael’s sweet giggle and the sight of her flirting with the cop I believed had been protecting the entire O’Murphy clan.
My girl’s hand was being held by the man I was determined to see behind bars.