Chapter Twenty-Eight
Grace
–Huxley: Madison knows what she’s doing. Let her handle everything, and you just relax. Go get a facial or massage or whatever a bride-to-be does to make herself feel happy and beautiful.
A facial? Or a massage? If Huxley were here right now, I’d strangle him. I texted him that his infernal assistant was impossible, and this is what he texts back?
I can’t decide if he’s being patronizing or actually believes that Madison shits golden chocolate unicorns. Regardless, it’s painfully obvious that I’m not going to get any help from him in keeping her in her place.
Since I have to wrap up the projections for the upcoming fundraiser by the end of the day, I shift my attention back to the spreadsheet on my computer. Fuming at an absentee fiancé isn’t going to help.
Elizabeth walks in an hour later than usual with Tolyan in tow. I start to smile and say hello, then freeze. Andreas is with them.
He’s in a bespoke three-piece suit, looking as imposing as ever. I haven’t spoken to him since the disastrous dinner. He’s probably seen Nelson’s bruised face. Or maybe not, given how busy he is.
Andreas walks over to my desk. “Can we talk for a moment?” he says, his voice modulated and smooth.
I point at myself in shock. “Me?”
His high forehead creases and he nods curtly.
“I guess…?” I bite my lip. “Um. Do you want to go to a conference room?” Maybe this is a sensitive matter. Like somebody hiring him to sue me, although his time seems too valuable to be wasted on informing me of this in person.
He checks his watch. “No need.” His keen eyes roam over my face. “I had breakfast with Elizabeth to discuss some legal matters and wanted to come up here to see how you’re doing.”
Should’ve known he was too busy to come here just to see me in person. “I’m doing…um…great?”
Andreas frowns. “It shouldn’t be a question.”
“I’m doing great,” I state again, making sure to keep my voice level. “Unambiguously so.”
“And the wedding? It’s getting done?”
Ah. Now I see. He’s trying to get me to reconcile with Nelson. Appearances matter. Andreas will totally want Nelson to walk me down the aisle at the ceremony because that’s the “proper” thing to do. “Yes. It’s going fantastic,” I lie. I’m afraid if I tell him how much I can’t stand Madison, he might volunteer Karie to help me. “You don’t have to worry about anything,” I add. “Huxley’s paying for it.”
The furrows between his eyebrows deepen. “Why? It should be your family.”
“Huxley volunteered. Guess it’s part and parcel of true love.” I paste on a smile.
“Ridiculous.” Andreas’s tone is almost scoffing. “Have the bills sent to my accountant. The family will do its duty.”
“Of course.” I don’t bother to argue. I’m not going to win, not against somebody like Andreas. Once he sets his mind on something, he doesn’t change.
“Good. I have to get going, but if you need anything, you know how to reach me.”
I nod and add more wattage to my smile. He doesn’t mean I should reach him . He means his assistant. “Have a great day. It was nice seeing you.”
He leaves without a response. My phone buzzes with an alert.
Barely suppressed annoyance shivers through me as I glare at Madison’s latest text, heavily hinting for me to agree to the color scheme. I’d rather have a courthouse wedding than this. Huxley is in advertising, so maybe he is seeing some superior aesthetic to the color scheme he wants, but do we have to have a monochromatic ceremony? If he wants black and white, he could just ask the photographers to make him a set of black-and-white photos.
–Me: I’m not really sure about the white chrysanthemums. Pink roses and peonies are prettier.
–Madison: Chrysanthemums are the flowers of the emperor.
–Me: What emperor?
–Madison: Of Japan.
My jaw drops, then I close it and start grinding my teeth. Ever since the OB-GYN appointment, everything from Madison just grates. If it hadn’t been for Dr. Blum sending me a positive update on Mom’s condition, I might scream and throw the phone out the window in frustration.
According to his email, Mom’s fingers twitched when she heard the baby’s heartbeat. I wish I could’ve been there to hold her hand and tell her myself that it’s her grandchild. He told me the nurse assistant assigned to my mother is fantastic, playing my voice recording for my mom every day and reading her books and the news so she won’t feel alone in silence.
I forcibly turn my attention back to the greatest current annoyance of my life.
–Me: If I wanted to be surrounded by the symbol of the Japanese imperial household, I would’ve married the Emperor of Japan! I’m marrying an American who has no ties to Japan!
–Madison: His aunt is Japanese.
–Me: And you know what? My great-great-great-great-grandfather was the King of England! So I think I should be able to have roses, don’t you?
–Madison: You’re being unreasonable. Huxley is paying for everything.
–Me: No. Andreas Webber is paying. He is my grandfather, in case you didn’t know.
Thank you, Andreas, for stopping by this morning to tell me you’d pay.
–Madison: I’ll see what I can do.
My knuckles are white, and my hands shake. Every time she says that, she discards my wishes and does whatever she claims Huxley wants. And if I text him again, he’s going to tell me to get “another facial,” like that’ll make me happy. If I get too many wrinkles for my age, it’ll be because I scowl every time I have to speak to Madison!
–Madison: By the way, you sure you don’t need assistance with the gown?
Why? So you can put me in a nun’s outfit or something else that I’m going to find objectionable? She says everything she’s conveying is what Huxley wants. And when I text him, he says something along the lines of “Let Madison handle it—that’s her job.”
This must be his revenge for being forced to marry me. But has he ever asked himself who picked me as his fake fiancée in the first place? How was I supposed to know I was one of the Webber marriage candidates? He never told me the details. I never had any reason to disclose that Nelson Webber was my father, or that because he’s such a world-class dickhead I never changed my name to reflect his parentage.
–Me: No. Grooms never get a say on the wedding gown.
–Madison: I see. BTW, Huxley wants to know how your face is doing.
Every time I think Madison is being difficult just for the sake of being difficult and blaming Huxley for everything, she asks me something like this. It throws me off because I can sort of imagine him wondering, not because he’s worried about how I’ll look on the big day, but because he genuinely cares.
But if he’s concerned, he could just text me himself. Like when he told me to treat myself to a facial. But no—he keeps going through Madison, who constantly rubs me the wrong way. She and I didn’t get off on the right foot, and I’m convinced at this point that we’ll never see eye to eye on anything.
Since I’m feeling irritated at the insistence on having white chrysanthemums at the venue rather than the pink roses I prefer, I send a curt response.
–Me: It’ll be fine by the wedding.
The swelling is gone, and there aren’t any marks on my skin. Huxley’s whitish goo worked its miracle.
–Me: I gotta go to a meeting, so can’t talk more today.
That’s a lie, but I can’t handle more of her right now.
–Madison: But we only have a couple of weeks left. Not even.
–Me: Maybe Huxley shouldn’t have picked the date he did, then. It isn’t my problem if you have to work overtime. In case you forgot, I’m pregnant with his baby, and I need my rest.
I then put my phone face down on the desk. I’ve used up all my patience for the day.
“Hey, there you are!”
Peter.
My face scrunches. Is the universe kidding me? I stare at my laptop and start typing. If I concentrate on writing the projection Elizabeth needs today, he might walk right past me without noticing. For all I know, he’s just discovered charitable donations are tax deductible and wants to minimize liability.
But today isn’t my lucky day. Peter stops in front of my desk. I continue to type, but he doesn’t get the hint.
For some moments, my world is my computer monitor with a backdrop of Peter’s stupid burgundy pinstripe suit. Finally, he clears his throat. “Grace, we need to talk.”
I take my time finishing my sentence, then look up. “Hello, Peter. What are you doing here?” I ask in my most professional voice. I don’t believe in bringing personal drama to work.
But if I did, I would dance at how awful he looks. His usually crisp shirt is slightly wrinkled, and the dark circles around his eyes could rival a crying clown’s.
Peter sniffs, then clears his throat again. “Life has gotten impossible since you made me homeless.”
I shoot him a fake frown-smile. “I don’t remember doing that.”
“Oh, come on. You kicked me out even though you knew I’d moved in with you and had no place to go.”
Revisionist, thy name is Peter . “I think the real problem was you cheating on me and then expecting me to let you continue to live at my place. For free.”
He doesn’t address the points that don’t work to his advantage. “Sleeping at the office isn’t doing it for me. It hurts my back.”
“Your lower back? Just above the hips?”
Peter looks surprised, and then a bit gratified. “Yes! Right there in the old lumbar region.”
“Well, there are plenty of ways to loosen that up. For example, you could have sex with my sister again.”
He ignores my sarcasm—he must be really desperate. “I’ll give you two hundred bucks to sublet your place.”
“Ex cuuuu se me?”
“I’ll only be there to shower and sleep. Two hundred is more than generous.”
Madison, and now Peter . Is there a doormat tattoo on my forehead that everyone can see but me? “Well, tempting as that offer is, I don’t believe my fiancé would like you sleeping there.”
“Fiancé?” An incredulous snort. “You aren’t engaged.”
“Because I’m not good enough for a man to marry, right?”
He shrugs. “Like I said.”
I give him a thin smile. “Here you go.”
I hand him one of the invitations. He looks at it but doesn’t take it. So I push it into his chest.
“Fiiiiine.” A smirk appears on his lips as he opens the envelope. “You know, you don’t have to marry the first guy you can find just to prove me wrong. Have some standards, Grace.” His tone says he is the standard I should aspire to.
I must’ve been blind and deaf to ever think he was worth dating.
He finally pulls out the invitation and opens it. Red blooms on his cheeks. “What the fuck ? You’re marrying Huxley Lasker?”
“Oh, good. You’ve heard of him.”
“No way! He could do so much better than you.”
Well. Huxley certainly didn’t want to marry me. Not that I’ll share that information with Peter. “And yet here we are. Love is blind.” I paste on the most saccharine, lovesick expression I can manage.
“Love?”
“Mm-hmm.” I lift my left hand and wriggle my ring finger so he can see the giant rock. “I hear a man’s love is proportionate to the size of the diamond.”
He takes in the sight and turns even redder. Hopefully he’s remembering all the shitty things he said, ostensibly to remind me of my place: a nice, sweet girl who is oblivious to what her boyfriend is up to, and even if she’s aware, knows better than to say anything, lest she be tossed aside like garbage.
But shame isn’t an emotion Peter feels. If he did, he wouldn’t have slept with Vivienne.
“Have some respect,” he says stiffly. “Stop trying to make yourself look better by showing me a fake wedding invitation and fake diamond. There’s no way he would go for a girl like you.”
“I understand your skepticism. The idea that you managed to date a girl good enough for a man like Huxley—even for a little while—must be difficult to wrap your mind around. But you’re welcome to come to the ceremony and see for yourself.”
He snorts. “If you’re really marrying a billionaire like him, why are you insisting I pay for your bed and sheets?”
“Because you soiled them. You break it, you buy it.”
“Just launder them!”
“I don’t think so. I’m not reusing sheets and a mattress that have been soiled with the fluids of another woman and a cheating piece of sewage scum like you.”
“You’re such a bitch! Ask your rich fiancé for the money!”
“Just as soon as you tell me why he should pay for your screwup.” I give him an expectant look.
“I’m not giving you a penny!”
“Hey,” comes an impatient voice, “if you’re too poor to donate to the charity, why don’t you get out of my way?”
I turn to look at the new visitor, who seems average in every way—height, weight and looks. Nobody would find him memorable, except for an exceptionally high forehead and flaming orange hair. He is far better dressed than Peter. Although he’s just in a button-down shirt and slacks, the material is expensive and well tailored.
“Who the fuck are you?” Peter demands.
“Joey,” Mr. Orange Hair says with his chest puffed out. “And you are…?” He looks Peter up and down with slight distaste, as though he were a used dildo at a garage sale.
“Peter Olivier.” Pushing the jacket back, my ex puts a hand on his hip and juts his chin like an MMA fighter before a match, then use his height to look down on his opponent. “I’m a lawyer.”
Joey scoffs. “Oh, one of those two-hundred-thousand-dollar-a-year rent-a-dicks? Pathetic.” He makes a shooing gesture. “Get lost before I sic a better and bigger lawyer on you.”
“I work at Huxley & Webber.” Peter drops the name like a nuke.
“Excellent. In that case, Jeremiah Huxley won’t need to hunt you down like a dog to sue your ass.”
Peter immediately flinches, blood draining from his face. He often told me one of the scariest lawyers he’s ever met is Jeremiah Huxley.
“Now get lost unless you want me to permanently fuck you up.”
Peter blanches and, with a final venomous glance at me, turns and leaves.
“Loser,” Joey mutters with a smirk.
“Totally.” I smile at him. “Thank you.”
“Eh, all in a day’s work. I just hate people who think they’re better than they are.” He beams at me. “So! You must be Grace Lain.”
“Yes. Um… Do I know you?” I say it as pleasantly as I can. He mentioned something about donating to the charity, so he might be a donor, although I don’t remember anyone named Joey. Or with that hair.
“I’m the Joey. Joey Martin.” He pauses and regards me expectantly.
“Ah, of course. I see.” Who is this guy? I smile, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel.
“I’m here for the invitation. Ted hasn’t received it.”
Why does this man keep acting like I should know who he’s talking about? “Ted…?”
“Ted Lasker? The greatest movie producer of all time? Huxley’s father?” He cocks an eyebrow. “ The Ted Lasker? Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
“Ah… Actually, Huxley never told me.” Now I sound as awkward as I feel. Great.
“Huxley, Huxley, Huxley.” Joey shakes his head. “Well, now you know. So. The invitation?”
“Um. Yes, of course.” I give him one of the last five I have left.
“ Thank you.” Exhaling with joy, he presses the invitation against his heart. “I was worried it might’ve gotten lost in the mail. USPS is incredibly unreliable when they’re handling important mail for Ted, you know.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, but he could’ve just shown up. Nobody would’ve turned him away at the ceremony.”
Joey forces a laugh. “Ha ha. Yes, well. Ideally not, but… In any case, he wants to frame this. After all, it’s the first one he’s actually received.”
“Aren’t Huxley’s brothers already married? Did all of their invitations get lost in mail?”
“Probably. Like I said, USPS is terribly unreliable.” He waves a hand.
I press my lips together. I’ve never had the postal service lose a piece of my mail, but maybe somebody’s stealing Ted’s. The man is super famous. It’s possible he has a stalker or two.
“Anyway, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, have you thought about doing a non-traditional wedding?”
Beyond having “Amazing Grace” as the theme? “I’m not sure. The ceremony is going to be pretty non-traditional as it is without adding more to it.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “But haven’t you ever wanted to be a star?”
“A star?” Don’t tell me he’s suggesting I should pick “The Star-Spangled Banner” as the wedding’s theme. Although… It might not be any more ridiculous than “Amazing Grace.”
“A star ,” Joey repeats, like he’s offering a small child a donut. “And all you would have to do is let Ted walk you down the aisle.”
I finally understand what he’s offering. “Oh. Well, um, please thank Ted for me, but I’m not interested in being an actress.”
“This isn’t an offer to cast you in a movie. Ted’s presence is what would make you a star.”
“Ah.” That’s some ego.
“So?”
“Um…” I was planning to walk alone, but…
“Ted has always wanted to walk a girl down the aisle, but what with fathering seven boys…” Joey lets out a dejected sigh.
I nod slowly. “Right.”
“His sons can be impossible to reason with.”
No kidding. Look at Huxley.
“Especially Griffin,” Joey adds, probably to avoid badmouthing my groom. “He’s really violent. The worst of the lot. You’ll want to stay away from that asshole. I bet you he kicks his wife and kids. And his students. He’s an econ professor, you know. Probably got tenured by beating the crap out of the president of the university.”
I try to picture a staid professor, wearing a jacket with elbow patches, beating up another faculty member—and fail. “I see. Well, thanks for the warning. So. I take it your boss couldn’t walk Griffin’s bride down the aisle…?”
He snaps his fingers. “Now you’ve got it. So. Your answer?”
Despite his casual smile, the intensity in his eyes builds. This is really important to him. Honestly, I don’t see why I should turn it down when it’s just such a small thing Ted is asking for, and it doesn’t cost me anything. An added bonus is that it’s going to be a fabulous figurative slap in the face for Nelson. He hasn’t apologized for hitting me, and I haven’t forgiven him. And Andreas didn’t ask us to reconcile, either.
I smile. “Why not? I’d love it.”
“Perfect!” Squealing, Joey gazes at me like I’ve single-handedly cured erectile dysfunction. “You’re a gift from God. When I saw a picture of you, I just knew you’d be reasonable. You’re too beautiful not to be perfect like that. Anyway, if you need anything— anything at all —you call me.” He hands me a thick black card. It says JOEY in gold and has ten digits underneath. “It’s my personal number. Fewer than a hundred people have it. Sweetheart, you won’t regret this. I will be the gateway to all your dreams and desires.”