2. Margot
Chapter 2
Margot
I ’ve been half listening to the news anchor on the TV screen while staring aimlessly at the ceiling, bored out of my mind. It’s another rainy Tuesday night in the middle of spring, and I have nothing to do. I can’t even go and see my boyfriend, Ethan, because his parents are in town, and as it’s been a while since he last saw them, we agreed he would have a solo night with them.
From my spot in the living room, I hear the front door open. A horrified gasp from Josephine, my mother, pulls my attention, and I peek over the back of the couch, while simultaneously burrowing into the old, worn out cushions to keep from being seen. Hushed whispers from Josephine and a more masculine tone that I assume is her husband, Alvin, float through the ajar living room door, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t hear exactly what’s being said over the sound of the TV.
For a moment, I hesitate, questioning whether I want to know what’s being talked about, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I slink over to the back of the couch, my movements sure and practiced. I’ve spent plenty of evenings sneaking in from being out late with Ethan when we were younger. We didn’t get much privacy with our parents around, but as we’ve grown older and he’s moved into his own place, that hasn’t been an issue.
Keeping to the wall, I inch my way closer to the door. The light from the hallway beams into the room, and I hold my breath as if I’ll give away my position. From here, I can see Josephine and Alvin, her husband. He’s slumped against the wall, his back to me.
There’s an air of panic and hurriedness unfolding before my eyes. Josephine wraps her arm around Alvin, helping him walk as they move to the back of the house.
When they are out of sight, I move, following in their wake, my eyes trained on their retreating backs as they enter the kitchen. A swirling in my gut tells me something bad has happened, and I need to find out what it is.
Josephine flits around the room like a bird caught in a storm, her feather-lined robe trailing behind her as she mutters to herself. I watch her, the familiar embers of my frustration at her dramatics sparking to life beneath the surface. Regardless of what’s happened, I shouldn’t be surprised by her reaction. This is typical of her; she panics and flusters until someone—usually me—comes in to fix the mess.
“I can’t believe this, Al. This can’t be happening.” Her voice is high-pitched and panicked as she replies to whatever news he’s told her.
My gaze follows hers, landing on Alvin as he lowers himself into a chair at the kitchen table. I can practically feel the pain slicing through his body. The air catches in my throat, choking me, as I take in the sight of him. His face is bruised, swollen, and bloody, but it’s his hand wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth that draws my attention. He holds it tentatively to his chest, wincing as he relaxes against the back of the chair. I force myself to move further into the room, every step stiff and heavy as I scramble to process the scene in front of me.
I might not like Alvin much—we’ve never seen eye to eye—but nobody deserves to be bleeding and broken like this. Even him .
He inhales sharply when his attention jumps to me, a sheepish look covering his features before he rips his gaze away. A sour taste coats my tongue, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach as I wait for him to speak.
Something has happened, that much is clear.
Staring at him, I try to make sense of what has happened, taking in the extent of his injuries. Did he get into an accident? Or worse, did somebody do this to him? Are they going to come for us next? Is that why Josephine is in a panic? Is he looking at me like that because I’m going to be beaten? A cold rush of unease spreads through my body, leaving me breathless.
I barely catch myself when Josephine’s body collides with mine, sending me staggering back a few steps as I try to keep us upright. Gentle sobs wrack her body and, instinctively, my arms wrap around her to offer some form of comfort, my own emotions sidelined for hers, yet again. At this point in my life, I am the parent in my relationship with my mother.
Josephine Dupont was born in France to a farmer and his wife—my grandparents, who I’ve never met. She moved to America when she was eighteen with a dream of becoming the next Marilyn Monroe. She likes to make out that I’m the reason she never saw that dream fulfilled, but we both know that she was a washed-up actress way before she conceived me with some sleazy Hollywood producer who wanted nothing to do with either of us when he found out she was pregnant.
She pulls back, smoothing my hair back from my face, like she did when I was a child. “Oh, mon chéri . I’m so sorry.”
Her eyes glisten in the dim lighting, but I don’t let the unshed tears soften the edge to my voice. “What are you sorry for?” I ask, skepticism filling my words. Her apologies are about as rare as they are sincere.
Gripping her wrists, I pull them away from my face and put some distance between us. It’s hard to think when she’s like this.
But we’ve never had drama in our lives like this before .
This feels different, like there’s an obvious air of danger that’s threatening to drown us, and that alone scares me. Josephine wrings her hands, staring down at the floor as my question lingers in the space between us.
“What are you sorry for?” I snap again, my focus jumping to Alvin before returning to her. “What’s happened?” Familiar gray eyes stare back at me, wide and fearful, before she looks over her shoulder at him.
Alvin clears his throat, scrubbing his left hand over the back of his neck nervously. “It’s nothing,” he grunts.
Grinding my jaw, I narrow my eyes. “It’s clearly not nothing. What happened to you, and why is she in tears?”
Josephine grabs my hand, tugging me toward the table. Her tone is soft and cajoling, but it doesn’t fool me. She wants something. They both do, and I’d put any money I might have on it being something only I can do. “Come, have a seat and we can talk about it. Find a solution together .”
I furrow my brow, taking a step back and forcing her to let go. Her gaze holds mine, but it doesn’t feel familiar anymore; she looks broken. That can’t be right . She blinks, and whatever I thought I saw is shuttered away as her resolve hardens and she turns away to rush across the room to Alvin. They bicker, their voices low and their words indecipherable. And yet, she’s tending to his wounds, dabbing at the blood on his face with a white cloth.
“Enough!” I shout, my voice cutting through the chatter and silencing them. “I don’t care who does it, but somebody had better tell me what the hell is going on.”
Alvin covers Josephine’s hand with his uninjured one. “It’s a done deal, Josie.” Resignation coats his words, filling his features and seeping into his body until he’s practically slumped over in his chair.
Josephine begins pacing, her distress evident in the way her features are pinched and her arms flail as she cries, “But it can’t be.” She pauses before a look I’ve never seen washes through her features. “She’s my baby. You can’t do this,” she screams at Alvin.
Bullshit .
I haven’t been her baby since I wore diapers, but this is all part of the show. Josephine is a much better actress in life than she ever was in her career and she’s more than prepared to give the performance of a lifetime. Frustration burns through me, swirling with the cloud of annoyance. Not only are Josephine and Alvin in their own little world, having a conversation about something they are yet to share, but whatever it is, it has something to do with me. And I want to know. Hell, I deserve to know.
“ What. Is. A. Done. Deal?” I bellow, drawing their attention to me.
A hint of something that looks as close to remorse as Alvin can offer flashes through his eyes. But he blinks, and it’s gone, leaving behind the coldness I’m used to.
Shrugging a shoulder, he drops his attention to his bundled up hand, carefully unwrapping it. “I’m sorry, Margot.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all . “But you’re getting married.”
Married?
Silence descends on us like a guillotine. Josephine’s eyes grow glassy and Alvin’s features smooth out with something akin to sympathy as I stand, rooted to the spot in shock.
To Ethan? He’s going to propose? Giddiness rushes through me. But we’re both so young and I barely have my life together.
Irritation douses my excitement. Why would he tell them before asking me? He knows what our relationship is like.
A million questions run through my mind, and I press my fingers to my mouth as I try to process the appropriate reaction.
I’ll say yes, of course. He’s the love of my life and we’re going to get married eventually.
But why was Alvin beaten if Ethan is going to propose? I brush away the question, choosing to focus on my own happiness.
I roll my lips to keep my grin at bay, but it falls away the second I look at Alvin. My chest tightens and his cold eyes hold mine, the truth skating down my spine like ice water.
Ethan isn’t proposing.
“And who exactly am I marrying?” I demand, folding my arms across my chest. My bravado is a front for the uncertainty about whatever Alvin has tried to drag me into.
Do we even know him? How did he get caught up in something so dangerous that he’s returned beaten and bloody? I lick my lips, my fear sending a jolt of pain through my chest.
Alvin’s eyes dart to Josephine before she slips into the chair next to him and takes over unwrapping his hand. His body tenses as he watches her intently, wincing when the fabric pulls on his skin.
She’s not going to push back at him. She’ll do whatever he asks, even if it means picking her husband over her daughter. This—her theatrics—was all for show. When it comes to the men in her life, she’ll always put them first because they can give her something I can’t; a different kind of companionship. I’ve never known anything different in my twenty-two years of life, and I don't expect that to change now.
Alvin replies, unable to meet my eyes. “His name is Massimo Marino. He, uh, he owns a club in the city.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It sounds harsh, bitter, and foreign to my ears. I know that name. “No.” I straighten, ready to stand my ground.
What fresh hell of a universe have I walked into? This isn’t normal, at least not in my world. Did he honestly think that I would be fine with marrying someone I don’t know? I scoff, moving toward the counter and flattening my palms on the cool marble before I force myself to face them again.
Josephine’s gentle sobs turn into wails worthy of an Oscar. My stomach churns when my attention drops to Alvin’s mangled hand. He holds it up, blood dripping from where his pinkie finger should be. The raw stump is a stark display of the brutality he’s forcing me into. I’ve heard of Massimo Marino and the reputation he has; I just never thought I’d see it firsthand.
I swallow down the bile that rises in my throat at the thought of being married to a monster like him. Someone who has no regard for the life of others. There’s no way I’m doing that.
“If you don’t do this, Margot, I’ll be facing a lot worse than a missing finger,” Alvin snaps, looking pointedly at his hand.
Nausea assails me, not because of the guilt Alvin’s clearly trying to ambush me with, but because of the turmoil swirling in my gut. I don’t want him being hurt, or worse, killed on my conscience, but I also will not be marrying a man I do not know.
“There has to be something else you can give him,” I rush.
When he looks away sheepishly, I narrow my eyes, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. “What exactly do you owe him?”
Alvin winces as Josephine tends to his hand, washing away his blood and inspecting the damage. “Money. I owe him money.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but when it’s clear that’s not going to happen, I shake my head, tears of anger brimming in my eyes. “So that’s it then?” I ask, my voice trembling with barely contained fury. “You sell me off like a piece of furniture that you no longer want, and for what? A debt you brought on yourself?” Shaking my head, I square my shoulders, my voice rising. “I won’t do it. I’m not your collateral. You need to figure a way out of this without me. Your inability to own your actions is not my problem, so don’t even try and put your consequences onto me.”
Josephine cries out, her sobs loud and grating in the otherwise quiet house, but I block her out, holding Alvin’s gaze and refusing to back down. Her chair scrapes across the floor and she staggers toward me, falling to her knees at my feet. “Please, Margot. You have to save him,” she begs.
I stare down at her, my stomach churning, but I can’t summon the same tears. If I felt any sympathy or familial love toward this woman, it's gone. After years of dealing with her, this is the final straw. I want nothing to do with either of them. I’d rather be alone in this world than have them in my life. “What about me and what I want?” I stab myself in the chest with my finger.
Tear-filled eyes lift to mine, Josephine’s voice barely audible when she pleads, “I can’t lose him.”
“My happiness means nothing? I have to pay for his crimes?” I grit, my jaw tightening. She’s always thinking about what she wants, what she needs, and never about others. Never about me .
Her features are pinched. “I am begging you, Margot. If I lose Alvin, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
Go on with your life? I hate that she’s so dependent on him, and he knows it. The way she behaves disgusts me. If she’s taught me anything, it’s how not to be independent. To be nothing like her .
Someone has to be the adult in this family—and it’s clearly not her or Alvin. It never has been. And yet, I feel the weight of her sobs pressing on my chest, her pleas clawing at my resolve. My head screams at me to fight, to say no, to leave them to clean up their own mess. But when I look at Alvin’s mangled hand and see the tears streaking Josephine’s face, I know I’m already trapped.
“Fine,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel. “I’ll think about it.”
With a squeal of joy, she jumps to her feet, wrapping me in her arms before leaving me oddly bereft as she crosses the room to him. I can’t quiet the niggling voice in the back of my head that tells me I’ve been played; that my own flesh and blood has used her limited acting skills to get what she wants.
I take one last look at them, at the mess they’ve made of our lives before heading for my bedroom. Each step feels heavier than the last, my mind reeling as I grasp for some way out of this. I won’t marry this monster. I’ll fight every step of the way. This isn’t over.
Not yet.