Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Paul
I'd always believed there were moments in life when you knew, crystal clear, you were doing the wrong thing, and then you went ahead and did it anyway.
This was one of those moments.
Outside the window, Boston's skyline blurred in the rearview mirror. The lights along Charles River shrank to pinpricks, then vanished.
What was racing through my head wasn't the road or the route. It was my stepmother. Elizabeth Vincent's phone call, still ringing in my ears.
"Tomorrow, three o'clock. The Rossis will meet you at the Four Seasons. Diana's flying in from Milan. Paul, this is the only chance to salvage the European operations. Not a choice."
Not a choice.
I floored it, like speed could shake loose the mess spinning in my head. Boston's night wind slammed against the windows, a low howl. What the hell are you doing, Paul Vincent?
Fifteen minutes ago, I'd climbed out of Casey's bed.
I say "climbed" deliberately—the word carried too much I didn't want to examine.
How fast I moved. How guilty I felt. How pathetic my excuse was.
An excuse I'd invented on the spot. "Family emergency.
" Just like that. Clean. Then I buttoned my shirt, grabbed my coat, and headed for the door.
I stopped at the door. Looked back at her.
She sat in the middle of the bed, wrapped in sheets, hair messy, knees pulled to her chest, eyes on me.
Forget it. Just drive, Paul.
I exhaled hard, jerked the wheel right, and turned onto the private road leading to Vincent Manor.
The headlights swept across two rows of thirty-year-old oaks—thick black trunks standing bare in the winter night, carrying a spine-chilling solemnity. Like every homecoming required walking through a graveyard first.
As a kid, I thought this road was beautiful. Now it just pressed down on me, closer and closer, no way back.
News of my father's deteriorating health came last week. Not from him, of course not. Vincent men would rather die in their chairs than say "I need help." Family tradition. His private doctor called me quietly, said things were worse than what they'd made public. Told me to prepare myself.
I'd been staring at the European division's reports for three solid weeks. Every time I wanted to throw the whole stack into the fireplace. But burning the paper wouldn't burn the numbers.
The manor's main building glowed with a few lights against the dark. I parked, sat in the driver's seat for two full minutes, staring at the steering wheel, taking a completely pointless deep breath. Then I went inside.
Elizabeth sat in the living room, spine straight. She always sat straight—even late at night, even alone. Like someone stood behind her with a ruler, measuring her vertebrae around the clock.
She wore a navy evening gown, held a whiskey, eyes on something in front of her. Didn't look up when I walked in.
"You're here," she said. Same tone she'd use to say "turn off the lights."
"Yeah," I said, draping my coat over a chair.
She finally looked at me, expression carrying the weary immunity of someone long past caring about my tone. Then she pushed something across the coffee table toward me.
A marriage contract. Beautifully printed, expertly bound, Rossi Group letterhead at the top. Plus a thick stack of financing proposals.
"The Rossi Group is willing to inject thirty-five million euros into the European division," Elizabeth said.
"The condition is a family alliance. Diana Rossi. Twenty-three, European art history degree, currently heads their PR division. She'll be at the Four Seasons tomorrow at three. You know what to do."
"I have a girlfriend," I said. "I can't—"
"That translator?"
Her voice wasn't raised. Actually calm. But that calm made me stop cold, because underneath it was something else—complete, effortless contempt.
"You know she's not right for you." Elizabeth continued, setting down her whiskey glass.
"No family background, no network, doing translation work in immigrant communities. Paul, I'm not judging her value as a person. I'm telling you reality. Bringing her to any formal occasion does nothing for you. Nothing for the family either."
"I wasn't planning to take her to 'formal occasions,'" I said, hearing my voice go dry. "I mean, we're together. This isn't some—"
"You think your so-called love can pay off these debts?"
She grabbed the financial reports and dropped them in front of me. I glanced down. Yeah. That number made optimism pretty damn hard.
"Your father sacrificed his life for this family. He's in a hospital bed now. He can't handle this anymore. So it falls to you. That's what it means to be the heir, Paul. Not your personal feelings."
I opened my mouth, spent three full seconds searching my brain for a strong counterargument. Came up empty.
Because everything she said, every single point, I'd heard it somewhere before.
Not from her mouth. From my own head. From my father's silences.
From every brick in this manor. From sitting in my father's study as a kid, listening to his business calls, slowly understanding the truth: Vincent children aren't ordinary people. Vincent children have responsibilities.
Social standing. Family interests.
"The Rossi investment," I said, hearing a strange, exhausted calm in my voice. "This is the only option?"
"Currently, yes," Elizabeth said. "We've approached two other families.
Their terms weren't as good. And we're running out of time.
If the European division can't hold through quarter's end, it's only a matter of time before it hits the domestic operations.
The board's already discussing divestiture. You know what that means."
Of course I knew. Divestiture meant that everything my father spent thirty years building would get carved up, each piece sold to the highest bidder. And I'd stand there watching. Because I'd signed off on it.
"Does he know?" I asked. "Father."
"It was his idea," she said, no emotion in her voice. "He said to let you decide. But he hopes you'll make the right choice."
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because sometimes your nervous system just produces weird stress responses. When your brain can't find the right emotional outlet, it randomly picks an inappropriate one.
I looked down at the marriage contract again. The Rossi Group logo gleamed gold on the cover—radiating absolute confidence that we'd accept.
"I'll go tomorrow," I heard myself say. "Four Seasons. Three o'clock."
Elizabeth showed no surprise, no relief. She lifted her whiskey glass, took a sip. That was it.
Like she'd known all along how this would end. Tonight was just procedure. Now we could go to bed.
"Look over the contract first. After you meet her tomorrow, we'll discuss the details," she said. "And clean yourself up. You look like hell."
I gave a half-hearted acknowledgment, grabbed both documents, and headed for the stairs.
Walking up the manor hallway, one step at a time. Underfoot, three-hundred-thousand-dollar marble. On both sides, family portraits that had hung for decades.
Every few steps, a wall sconce. Warm yellow light making everything look textured, carefully designed, respectable.
I'd walked this hallway for nearly thirty years. But tonight, it felt especially long.
I dropped into my study chair. Last week's unfinished reports sat on the desk. Outside the window, the manor's dark garden. Snow tonight—fine flakes pressed against the glass, falling quietly, rhythmically.
I put the marriage contract in front of me. Stared at it. Didn't open it.
Casey's face when she said those words played in my head. Tomorrow's my birthday.
I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and did some very serious mental organizing.
The facts: thirty-five million euros wouldn't fill the European division's hole. My father's health wouldn't allow him three more years to find another way. And I'd known since childhood what family responsibility meant.
And the most important point. The one I'd never faced directly.
Casey and I. There was a line between us. We both knew where it was. We just never said it out loud.
She did translation work in immigrant communities. She dreamed of opening a language school by the ocean. Her world was people who needed help, cheap wine and tortillas with friends after work. That was real. That was her. That was the her I really liked.
But she'd never come to Vincent Manor. Never attended any family events. Because I'd never brought her. Never.
"She's not worthy of the Vincent name."
I replayed Elizabeth's words in my head, examined them carefully. Why hadn't I argued back? That statement alone should've made me furious. Should've made me slam my fist on the table. Should've made me say "what the hell gives you the right to judge her?"
That line, I'd always known where it was. Or maybe I'd felt the same way, just never decided how to handle it.
That was the real problem, wasn't it?
Not Elizabeth. Not the Rossi Group. Not the European operations.
Me. Paul Vincent. The guy whose brain was already a third of the way here when Casey mentioned her birthday. The guy who said, "Once I get my MBA, we'll go public, I'll take you to Hawaii to see whales," then buried that promise and never mentioned it again.
Outside, snow kept falling.
Around midnight, I read the marriage contract from start to finish. Closed it. Set it aside.
Then I pulled out my phone, looked at my conversation with Casey. The screen showed her last message—a photo of her with an elderly woman at the aid center. Caption: "Finally got it approved!" Followed by a goofy celebration emoji.
I stared at that photo. For a long time.
Then typed a line. "Can I call you tonight?"
Sent it. Waited three minutes. No reply. Probably asleep.
I stared at what I'd written, then typed another line below it.
"Home. Happy birthday tomorrow."
Sent. I flipped the phone over, placed it on top of the contract, and stared numbly at the ceiling.
This is the only way, I told myself. I'll explain. When the time's right. When I figure out how to say it. When I—
Don't know how much time passed. My phone lit up, vibrated. I turned it over.
Casey: Still up, you can call
Casey: Why'd you say happy birthday again? I said I wanted to hear it in person
Casey: Paul?
I stared at those three messages, sat up straight, and rapidly ran through every possible response in my head. Then dialed.
"Hey," she answered fast. Voice didn't sound like she'd been asleep. Like she hadn't slept at all. "What are you planning to explain?"
"Tonight," I said. "Not the explanation I gave. The real one."
Silence for two seconds. "I'm listening."
"The family business has problems," I said. "Big problems. They need me to handle it. Elizabeth's my stepmother. She called tonight because there's a meeting tomorrow. Important. Time-sensitive."
"Okay," she said. "Thanks for telling me."
That "thanks for telling me" came out way calmer than I expected. So calm it made me uneasy. "Casey, are you okay?"
"I'm thinking about something," she said, voice carrying no emotion. Like talking to herself.
"We've been together all this time. I've never met anyone from your family. Never been to that place of yours down south. I don't know your stepmother's name. I don't know your father's name. When I saw 'Elizabeth' tonight, you know what my first thought was?"
"What?"
"I didn't know who it was," she said. "Your boyfriend gets a call, you look at the name, and you have no fucking idea who it is. Paul, does that seem normal to you?"
I didn't answer.
Because it wasn't. Not at all normal. Hard to argue with that.
"I'm not accusing you," she continued. "I'm stating a fact. I don't know who's in your life because you've never told me."
"I know," I said, hearing my voice go hoarse. "That's on me, Casey. Not you. I—"
"Paul," she interrupted, voice suddenly softer.
"Tomorrow's my birthday. Come see me after your meeting. We'll go to that French place. You'll tell me happy birthday in person. You'll tell me you're ready for me to meet the people in your life. That can be my birthday present. Nothing else. Is that too much to ask?"
I closed my eyes, replayed that sentence in my head.
Tomorrow, three o'clock. Four Seasons. Diana Rossi.
"No," I heard myself say, voice calmer than I expected. "I'll see you tomorrow, Casey. Happy birthday."
"Has to be in person. Saying it now doesn't count."
"I'll say it tomorrow. In person."
"Good," she said. Brief silence. "Paul, get some sleep. Don't overthink it."
The call ended.
I set the phone on the desk and stared at the contract's cover. That gleaming gold logo.
Then a voice in my head said:
What did you just promise her, Paul? What did you just promise?
I didn't answer that question.
I put the contract in the drawer, turned off the light, leaned back in the chair, and closed my eyes. Casey's words still spinning in my head.
That can be my birthday present—let me meet the people in your life.
Just that one request. Light. No pressure.
But that one request was the one thing I currently had no way to deliver.