Chapter 9
Russell
Ask for your hand in marriage? What the fuck? Am I ancient?
I like to think of myself as the kind of guy who’s well composed. In most situations, I can handle myself without letting any nervousness show, but now, with this woman sitting in front of me and the prospect of what I’ve just said, I know that trepidation is affecting me.
Apparently, manifesting through weird, stilted speech. Maybe I should propose a research trial into how the language center in the brain reacts to confidence and embarrassment.
Juliette—Jules—has a reaction that I, honestly, should have been expecting.
She laughs, throwing her pretty little head back, her glossy lips parting, her hand going to her stomach to really commit to the bit. In her sweater and woolen skirt, she must be hot. The material looks soft, and my eyes locked on it when she walked in, my fingers itching to touch it.
“Oh, shit,” she wheezes, still laughing and shaking her head. After a second, she tilts her head and looks at me with wet eyes. “That’s—that’s a good one.”
A beat passes in which I can’t seem to form words.
“I mean, you’re not actually serious, are you?” she adds.
When I say nothing to that, she seems to have her answer, and it makes those lovely dark brows launch up on her forehead. Dipping her head, her eyes widening when she looks at me, she asks, “Dr. Burch—”
“Please, call me Russell.”
She hesitates. “What the hell? Why would you propose to someone you barely know?”
The sound of my name on her lips is disarming, and I push through the way it seems to caress against me, feeling like an advance in and of itself. It’s not lost on me that we’re alone in my office, that the light sparkling off the lake outside is a gorgeous backdrop. Romantic.
“Well, that wasn’t the proposal,” I correct, crossing my arms and leaning back against my desk. “This is a…request. If we went through with it, I’d propose to you publicly.”
“What…?” her eyes are very wide now, irises the color of maple syrup. “But why? Surely you have any number of women falling at your feet—you could just, like, actually go on a date?”
“I’m not interested in a real marriage,” even as I say it, I can see that it’s not coming off right. Jules takes a step back, her face shifting to incredulity.
“Wait—are you like—?”
I realize what she’s thinking, propositioning me for sex?
Running an exhausted hand down my face, I shake my head. As though I would try to suggest some sort of sexual exchange. I let out a breath, thinking I should have just explained all this before jumping right in with the fact that I want to marry her.
“Look, would you take a seat?” I gesture to one of the chairs, circle around my desk as she continues to obstinately stand, her arms crossed as she looks at me distrustfully. “I’ll explain everything, and you can tell me what you think after.”
To my surprise, she—albeit reluctantly—lowers herself into one of the chairs.
“As you know, my father recently passed away,” I say, and some of the wariness on her face flickers away, melting back into sympathy.
The thing about a cancer diagnosis is that you get a sort of pre-emptive grief.
This started nearly five years ago, when I learned of his cancer.
Most people assume I’m just entering the grieving process now that he’s gone, but what they don’t understand is that I’ve been working through the loss of my father for years.
And it’s not always easy to grieve someone when they’re still alive. When the end is coming, you feel like you’re supposed to spend all your time with them. And eventually, you might start to feel like a monster when you wish it would just happen.
Then comes the grief when they’re gone, also riddled with guilt. Especially when they put annoying clauses in their will to push you around in death much the same as they did in life.
“I am sorry,” Juliette says, like I’d doubt her condolences. She swallows, smooths her hands over the front of her blouse. “I actually—I mean, I heard the speech he gave. The night that he announced it.”
I nod—that speech went pretty viral online. It’s not a surprise that she’s seen it.
“Thank you, but it’s not necessary. He’s been a pain in the ass to me as much in death as he was in life.
” I swallow, keeping the grief—the welling sadness at his passing—at bay.
“He had a sizable estate at the time of his death and was a single parent to us. He made it clear that each of us would get our share of the inheritance only after we settled down with a family. Apparently, he didn’t want us running around with that kind of money without something to tether us, keep us from spending it frivolously. ”
I’m of the opinion that plenty of family men piss away their life savings, and that being married with kids doesn’t actually make you responsible, it just gives you responsibilities.
That much is clear, especially considering the fact that my sister is suspicious that her husband, and the father of her children, might currently be fucking up their lives.
But my father didn’t worry himself with consulting me on this, and he’s not around for me to argue with.
And I never actually told him the reason for me not settling down and having kids. So, in a way, I guess I can’t really blame him.
“Okay,” Juliette says, dragging the word out. “So, why ask me?”
I steeple my fingers, feeling more in control.
The fact that she’s still here is encouraging.
“I need a paper showing that I’m married, a woman who’s willing to be interviewed by the family lawyer, someone to attend events with me, and, most importantly, a partner in this I can trust not to give away that I’m doing this for the inheritance. ”
“So?”
“So, I need someone who can also stand to gain from this. My proposal is this—I front the costs for Gus’s surgery in exchange for your time and discretion. We both get what we want.”
Her mouth drops open. “Do you…realize how much that’s going to cost, out-of-pocket? Over a hundred thousand dollars.”
Of course, I know how much it is. I can’t stop myself from smiling at her, surprised at her misunderstanding.
I might not have the endless bank account necessary to single-handedly fund the clinic on my own in perpetuity, but I’m not exactly hurting for cash.
Even the check I wrote earlier barely dipped into my savings, not even considering my investments and other holdings.
I’m an unmarried, world-renown cardiovascular surgeon from a wealthy family with no children. Unlike most doctors, I didn’t graduate with a mountain of debt, and at nearly fifty, without a family to support, all my extra money has gone toward investing, buying land, fattening my retirement.
I could retire from medicine today and live comfortably on the returns from my investments alone. Not that I plan to do that, but I could. I could have done it ten years ago.
All that to say that, yes—I can easily cover the cost of Gus’s surgery.
But how do I communicate that to her without it coming off as boastful?
I’m not oblivious to my privilege. Clearly, Juliette isn’t in the same situation as me.
My father might be dead, but he left me a legacy and paid for every degree I earned before he passed.
Juliette doesn’t have anyone financially but herself.
“It’s…” Juliette swallows, then shakes her head, letting out an incredulous laugh, and I realize for the first time that she’s practically shaking in her seat.
At first, I think it’s anxiety, but I quickly realize it’s rage when she says, that husky voice even lower, “So, let me get this straight—you thought you could buy me?”
I blink at her, “No—that’s not—”
She stands up from her chair, her gorgeous face flushing a deep red. “You thought I’d come in here and you’d say all this, and I’d—what? Drop to my knees? Start crying out my gratitude to you?”
I thought there was a chance she might say no.
In fact, I’d even thought of that as the most probable situation.
But I hadn’t considered the fact that she might be angry, might think of my offer as a hit to her character, rather than a proposal for a situation that would benefit us both.
“No, Juliette, just wait—”
“Don’t follow me,” she says, holding up her hand when she reaches the door. For a moment, she holds my gaze, then she clears her throat and says, “I’m sorry about your dad. But I think it would be better if you and I both pretend this never happened.”
With that, she’s gone.
Along with any chance I have of getting my inheritance in time to save the clinic.
“So, just so I understand, Russell,” Ronald says, grimacing, his face blurry over the video call. “You don’t have your inheritance yet?”
“There have just been some minor bumps in getting it released.” I stare into the camera with a winning smile, daring Ronald to continue pressing. “But it shouldn’t be more than a few months.”
Ronald looks skeptical, then he sighs, slides his glasses off his nose, and starts to wipe at them with his shirt. “You know, your father and I were close, Russell.”
Everyone thought they were close with my dad—that was part of his charm. He was the kind of guy who made you feel like you were his best friend, though that was usually not true.
“Of course,” I say instead, even though the only thing I want to do is get off this call.
“Calvin has been pushing hard for us to close the clinic. In his mind, the best way to continue your father’s legacy is to ensure BHC is well-funded. That the other branches can continue to operate without risk. And he sees the clinic as a liability.”
I’m well aware, I think, but don’t say. Calvin is an idiot. If he cared about continuing my father’s legacy, he would know this is the last thing he would want.
Ronald goes on, “I know the two of you disagree about this, but I think it’s important that you remember you are family. Grief can either bring people closer or push them apart. And we definitely don’t want your situation to be the latter.”
It’s not like Calvin and I have ever been particularly close.
Maybe back when we were kids, and we weren’t vying for attention from the same man.
Once we graduated high school, moved into college and beyond, that competition turned into a cool, measured—and maybe even slightly friendly—complacency with one another.
Neither of us was going to leave. Also, when I chose cardiology over neurology, when I moved away to New York—I cemented Cal’s place as the golden boy in my father’s mind, so it didn’t matter, anyway.
Or, as close to the golden boy as you can be while getting a small morsel from his estate. I could ask Grande to read the full will to me, but in truth I’m not that interested in what Cal got. Likely some stocks from a company my father anticipated would do well. Maybe a few million dollars.
“…your father wouldn’t want that,” Ronald says, and I realize I’ve zoned out for the last part of his little speech.
I nod, hoping he doesn’t quiz me on what he’s said later.
Sighing again and sliding the glasses back onto his face, Ronald says, “A few months. Fine—you have until the new year, Russell. After that, we’re opening up the discussion about the clinic.
And we’ll have to take Calvin’s viewpoint into consideration. ”
I know my father elected Cal to the board, but I want to scream that it’s not enough.
It’s not enough for Cal to have the right to destroy what my father built.
Just because Cal doesn’t see the clinic as being useful—maybe it’s not as glitzy and glamorous as the charity balls and traveling to foreign countries—doesn’t mean there aren’t people in this city who would be devastated by its loss.
Children not receiving the health care they need.
Mothers and fathers going without to make sure their kids have it, only to leave behind single-parent households and orphans in their wake.
At the clinic, I’ve seen people with something as simple as Type 1 diabetes on the brink of collapsing simply because they couldn’t afford their medication.
How frustrating, to have the diagnosis and know the treatment, but to line the pockets of someone else with your life.
“I appreciate that you’re willing to table the conversation,” I say, though I would much rather he take the conversation off the table altogether. “That clinic meant a lot to my father.”
Ronald nods and we say our goodbyes, and the second I’m off the call I let out a low, frustrated noise. The inheritance money is my only choice.
I can’t stop thinking about Juliette, the way she stomped out of my office. The flush on her cheeks and the flash in her eyes. And I can’t stop thinking about Gus—deserving the surgery, despite what the insurance company says. There’s no way she’d let me pay for it outright.
Juliette is the only woman that can step in on such short notice. I have until the first of the year to pull this off, and that’s just not enough time to find someone else.
Just the thought of doing that fills me with dread.
So how in the hell can I convince her to say yes?