Chapter 16 – Maura
MAURA
My hands shake with fury as I hang up. Energy surges through my muscles. I wish I could throw the damn phone. I want to kick things, punch things, break stuff in half. There’s probably a punching bag in the building’s well-equipped gym, put there for exactly this purpose.
All the anger surging through me has to go somewhere, since apparently channeling it into James’s credit cards is pointless.
Since I’d probably break my hand trying to throw a punch, I settle for kicking a box in the corner of my studio.
Predictably, the box I pick is full of rocks, and it makes my toe throb with pain.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter, limping over to a chair so I can take off my sock and inspect the damage.
My foot looks perfectly fine, which just makes me more annoyed, somehow.
James’s optics comment had my anger at a low simmer since I woke up this morning.
Our last conversation just heated my rage into a boil.
All because I couldn’t provoke him with a credit card spree.
It probably makes me the definition of “poor little rich girl,” but I’ve shopped away my anger since I was a little girl, when my nanny accidentally shared that my father said she could use his credit card to buy me anything I asked for.
I was around eight years old at the time.
Victor was on a business trip, and I hadn’t seen him in almost two weeks.
Worse, he hadn’t even called me. He texted the nanny a few times, asking if I’d taken my meds and done my homework, which of course I had.
I begged her to let me use her phone to call him back, but she was too scared of interrupting him at work.
So instead, I asked her to take me to the toy store.
Once we were there, I let loose, asking her for all the most expensive items I could find.
Gigantic doll houses. Special edition Barbies.
A little pink Jeep I could drive around in.
Not toys that would normally interest me, but toys that would send a message.
Call me.
Yell at me.
Notice me.
My plan worked. My father called that night, demanding to know why I had to run up such a bill on his credit card. He never spent enough time around me to understand that most eight-year-olds don't have much impulse control. “What's got into you, Maura?” he screamed.
“I don't know,” I answered, smiling.
My father didn’t yell at me much. That would have necessitated him actually paying attention to me.
Sometimes, I'd try to pick fights with him in person when he was home. It never worked. He’d walk out of the room the second I tried to disagree with him, insisting I was “too emotional.” The only way I was ever able to get his attention was with spending sprees.
When it was his precious money on the line, suddenly he cared, at least a little, about why I was acting that way.
At the very least, it would get him to be as angry as I was.
Sitting in my studio, rubbing my sore foot, I'm painfully aware that I just tried to use an eight-year-old's tactics against a grown man.
I'm still disappointed that I didn't work, though. I was looking forward to seeing how James acts when he’s angry.
Ideally, he would yell at me or throw his own tantrum.
I expected he was more of the silent treatment type, though.
I could still eke out a grim satisfaction from watching him walk around the apartment, pretending he didn't see me.
Instead, I got a bemused phone call and a literal pile of diamonds.
If I were in a normal marriage, my husband buying me diamonds wouldn't make me furious.
Then again, I signed away my rights to a normal marriage—literally.
Now, I'm stuck with a husband I don't have the first idea how to interact with.
When things got too real, he brushed it away with a dismissive remark about optics.
As if the only reason he would ever sleep with me would be to fulfill the fucking contract.
He didn't apologize. He didn’t show me he was capable of feeling anything, not regret, lust, or even anger. I don’t even think he’s capable of emotion. Maybe he is a villain, after all.
Slowly, the throbbing in my foot ebbs away.
The anger, unfortunately, doesn't. I'm still dying to tear something in half.
Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I try stomping around the studio.
It doesn't make me feel any better. It just makes my heart thud even faster and my breath grow shorter as my anger tips into anxiety.
Damn it. Dr. Markovic has warned me about this a thousand times.
I can't control my anxiety; it's going to drive me into another heart procedure.
I lean back against the wall and take a deep breath as I count to four slowly.
I hold it for four, picturing a giant beach ball inflating. Then I slowly let the breath out.
I hate that I let James get me upset. I shouldn’t give a damn what he feels. Hell, I don’t even know why I care. I’m only contracted to care about him for one week a month, when I’m ovulating. The rest of the time, I can pretend he doesn’t exist.
My phone rings, and the screen reads Victor Matthews. I've always saved my father's contact under his full name, even when I was still in my early teens. Even then, saving him under “Dad” implied a closeness I knew would never exist.
I sigh. My father is maybe the least likely person to cheer me up. Unfortunately, he has a bad tendency of calling me again and again until I finally pick up. I don't feel like screening his calls all day, so I give and pick up this one.
“I've been waiting for an update,” he says, the second I pick up.
“Hi, Dad, how are you?” I ask brightly, reminding him how conversations are supposed to happen. He ignores it.
“Are you pregnant yet?”
Of course. I’ve known him long enough not to be disappointed that he cares far more about my womb than my wellbeing. “I took a test yesterday. It was negative.”
My voice wavers slightly on the last word. As much as I wish I could just move on from the disappointment, I haven't…not quite yet.
My father is silent for a moment. “And you're sure it's not a false negative?”
“It's not. I confirmed it this morning.”
“Have you been exercising?”
I blink at the sudden change in subject. “Yes.”
“You’re pushing too hard,” he snaps. “No wonder you didn’t get pregnant this month.
“I wasn’t doing a triathlon. It’s just walking and yoga.” That’s as much physical exertion as my doctors recommend to maintain my heart muscle without pushing it.
“You should be on bedrest during your fertile period. I’ll talk to James about it tonight.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, my father hasn’t done any research about pregnancy guidance from the past century. “I’m supposed to be exercising. It’s good for me, and if I get pregnant, it’s good for the baby, too.”
“What about your diet?” he pushes. “I read you should be eating two cups of walnuts every day to increase your fertility.”
“Where did you read that?” I ask incredulously.
“Have you double checked with Dr. Markovic to make sure none of your medications could interfere with your fertility?”
“Yes, Dad. Of course I did.”
“You’re twenty-six, for god’s sake!” he roars. “There shouldn’t be anything in your way. You’re supposed to do your duty and give me a grandson, goddamn it. Are you even trying?”
“Of course I am.” The words come out weaker than I wish they did. I know, rationally, that there's nothing I could've done differently. Conceiving is mysterious. There are things you can do to raise the odds, but you'll never have total control of their outcome.
But everything Victor is asking me is a question that I already asked myself. Ever since that negative test, I've been interrogating myself about what I could've done differently. Maybe if I'd take different multivitamins, maybe if I had made more appointments, maybe, maybe, maybe.
“You only have a year to get this done,” he snarls. “This is your only job, Maura. Your only purpose. If you can't get it done, you'll be out of a husband.”
I swallow a laugh. Pregnant or not, I might be out of a husband sooner than that, if things keep getting worse between James and me. He doesn't even care enough to be angry at me.
“Shut up, Dad,” I snap. “If you really cared about me, you'd be asking me how I'm feeling, not yelling at me to eat walnuts for some goddamn reason. I'm not your pawn or your broodmare. I'm your daughter, and I don't want to hear from you again until you can talk to me like a father.”
I hang up the phone, and this time, I really do throw it across the room. Let it break. It’s not like anyone will care if I buy a new one, or a thousand new ones. Hell, I could buy the whole goddamn phone manufacturer and James wouldn’t bat an eye.
I’m done bending to what the men in my life want.
My marriage contract declares that my child will inherit Pages and Sequel.
I know my father thinks that he'll be able to raise my son to be just like him, grooming him into the perfect heartless CEO, but there's nothing in the paperwork that says my father is entitled to any emotional or moral influence on my child.
I'm not even obligated to give them time together.
So I won't. I never have to live under Victor's roof again, which means he has no power over me. He won’t raise my son in his image. I won't let him.