The Marriage Compromise (Marriage Mayhem #9)

Chapter One

The Marriage Compromise

AJA FOXX

~ Connor ~

I tugged at my shirt collar as I stepped into the hotel's high end restaurant, immediately feeling like a Walmart clearance item mistakenly shelved at Nordstrom.

Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting prismatic light across polished marble floors that probably cost more than my entire college education—what little of it I'd managed to scrape together.

At least it wasn’t Le Bernardin.

The text from my mother had been suspiciously cheerful: "Family dinner tonight. Be there by seven." No mention of why or what the occasion was. That should've been my first clue that something was off.

My grandfather sat at a round table draped in white linen, looking lost in his thoughts. At least he was genuinely happy to see me, his weathered face breaking into a smile when I approached.

My father stood beside him, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he was waiting for permission to flee.

And then there was my mother.

Margaret Matthews glided toward me in a dress that definitely wasn't bought at the discount stores she'd dragged me to throughout my childhood. Her blonde hair was swept up in an elegant updo that screamed "I spent three hours at the salon for this."

"Connor, darling! You made it." She air-kissed both my cheeks, the cloud of her expensive perfume nearly choking me. "We were beginning to worry."

I was exactly four minutes late.

"Wouldn't miss it," I lied, forcing a smile. "What's the occasion?"

"Does a mother need an occasion to see her son?" Her hand rested on my arm, manicured nails lightly digging into my sleeve.

Just what I need, quality time with the vultures.

"You usually do," I said, unable to keep the edge from my voice. The last three times my mother had called me, it had been to ask if I could "help out" with various bills. Help out meaning pay them entirely.

"Connor!" My father stepped forward, clapping me awkwardly on the shoulder. "How's school going? Still taking those... classes?"

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. "Yeah, Dad. That's generally what college consists of. Classes."

"Of course, of course." He nodded, glancing nervously at my mother.

We settled into our seats, and I found myself unconsciously fidgeting with my watch—a secondhand Timex that kept decent time despite the scratched face. It had cost me two shifts of overtime at the campus bookstore.

My mother's eyes flickered to it, a brief flash of disapproval crossing her face before her smile returned. The smile never quite reached her eyes, which remained calculating and cold.

"Tell us everything," she insisted, leaning forward. "How are your studies? Have you met anyone special?"

I almost choked.

In eighteen years, my mother had never once asked about my love life. The most personal question she typically asked was whether I had enough money for her to borrow some.

"Studies are fine. No one special." I kept my answers short, trying to figure out what game they were playing.

"You work too hard," my father chimed in. "All work and no play, you know what they say."

Says the man who once told me minimum wage was 'good enough for someone like you'.

"I like working," I said, which was only partially true. I liked the independence it gave me. I also liked being able to feed myself and pay my bills. It wasn’t like my family was helping out at all.

They tended to borrow money, not give it.

My grandfather patted my hand, his touch light but reassuring. "You're a good boy, Connor, always have been."

That earned him a genuine smile. Grandpa had been the only one who'd supported my decision to go to college instead of joining my father at his company like my older brother had.

As the waiter brought our appetizers, I noticed a man at a nearby table. Well-dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my semester's tuition, with slick black hair and calculating eyes that kept drifting to our table.

Each time I caught him looking, he'd smile slightly before returning to his phone.

Creepy.

"Do you know that guy?" I asked my mother, nodding discreetly toward the man.

Her eyes widened briefly before she composed herself. "What guy, darling?"

The well-dressed man in question chose that moment to stand and make a call, his back to us now.

"Never mind," I muttered, stabbing at my salad. Something felt off. More off than usual for a Matthews’ family gathering, which was saying something.

Dinner progressed with increasingly bizarre attempts at conversation from my parents. My mother asked about my friends. My father wondered if I needed money for books—a first in recorded history.

I felt like I'd stepped into an alternate universe where my family actually cared about my existence beyond what it could do for them. Maybe they were terminally ill, or they've joined a cult, or they're setting me up to donate a kidney.

That last thought wasn't as far-fetched as it should have been.

Throughout the meal, I kept noticing the businessman glancing our way. Each look made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

My mother seemed increasingly anxious as the dinner progressed, checking her watch and exchanging looks with my father.

When dessert arrived—some fancy chocolate thing that probably cost thirty dollars—my mother suddenly raised her champagne flute. "I think we should toast," she announced.

My father nodded too enthusiastically. "Yes, yes, a toast!"

The waiter appeared, as if on cue, with another flute of champagne, placing it in front of me. I frowned, noticing a strange cloudiness to the liquid that the other glasses didn't have.

"I don't really drink," I reminded them. Alcohol and working two jobs while taking classes didn't mix well.

"It's a special occasion," my mother insisted, her voice taking on that edge I knew better than to argue with. "A celebration of family."

"What exactly are we celebrating?" I asked, not touching the glass.

"Just drink it, Connor," my father said, his jovial mask slipping for a moment.

My grandfather looked confused, glancing between my parents with furrowed brows. "Margaret, what's going on?"

My mother's smile tightened. "Nothing, Dad, just a family toast." She turned to me, eyes hard despite her smile. "Drink up, Connor. Don't be difficult."

I looked down at the cloudy champagne, then at the businessman who was now openly watching our table, a small smile playing on his lips.

Something was very wrong here.

"You know," I said, my hand hovering near but not touching the suspicious flute, "I'm actually feeling a little under the weather. Maybe we should do this another time."

My mother's fingers wrapped around my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. "Don't be silly. One drink won't kill you."

No, but whatever you put in it might.

The businessman stood, straightening his tie as he began to approach our table.

I took a reluctant sip of the champagne, mostly to stop my mother's talons from drawing blood where she gripped my wrist. The liquid burned going down, with a strange bitter aftertaste that definitely wasn't part of the usual champagne experience.

Not that I'd had much champagne in my life, but even I knew it shouldn't taste like someone had crushed up pills and mixed them in. My tongue felt numb almost immediately, and alarm bells started clanging in my head.

"There's a good boy," my mother cooed, finally releasing my wrist to pat my cheek.

I wanted to spit the champagne back into the glass, but I'd already swallowed. I set the flute down harder than necessary, the stem nearly snapping between my fingers.

I knew should have just gotten up and ran for the door when I first suspected something. But, no, I had to be an idiot and actually drink the cloudy alcohol.

Stupid. So stupid.

"What did you—" I started, but my words already felt thick, like my tongue had doubled in size.

The room tilted slightly, then righted itself, and then tilted again. The chandeliers above began to blur, their crystal pendants smearing into streaks of light.

My limbs felt simultaneously heavy as concrete and light as balloons. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.

Note to self: never accept anything from people who'd sell a kidney if it meant a new car.

"Are you feeling alright, Connor?" my father asked, his voice echoing strangely. "You look a bit peaked."

I tried to focus on his face, but it kept shifting, features rearranging themselves in a way that would have been fascinating if it wasn't so terrifying.

My grandfather's concerned expression swam into view momentarily before dissolving back into the soup my vision had become.

"What's... happening?" I managed to ask, though my words slurred together.

"Just relax," my mother said, her smile turning predatory. "Everything's going to be fine."

Fine for who?

The well-dressed businessman appeared at our table, looming over me like some kind of corporate grim reaper. Up close, his eyes were cold, assessing me like I was merchandise at an auction.

"Margaret," he said, his voice smooth and controlled. "Is our young friend ready to continue our discussion?"

My mother stood, straightening her expensive dress. "Mr. Harris, this is my son Connor. Connor, this is Mr. Harris, a business associate of mine."

Business associate? Since when did my mother, who never had a real job in her life, have business associates who looked like they ate small companies for breakfast?

"Pleasure," Harris said, not bothering to extend his hand. His gaze swept over me, lingering in a way that made my skin crawl even through the drug haze.

My father shifted in his seat, opening his mouth as if to say something. My mother's hand immediately clamped down on his arm, her fingers digging in so hard I could see the fabric of his suit jacket pucker.

He closed his mouth.

"Margaret, what's going on?" My grandfather's voice cut through the fog in my brain for a moment. "You said this was a family dinner."