Chapter 9
Emilia
BV, Before Vegas, I would talk to a member of the Archer family maybe once every month. AV, After Vegas, I was talking to Archers all the time.
Yesterday it was Duncan. And this evening I had Marcela Archer at my doorstep.
Damian had called the previous night, but I didn't pick up.
He texted me: Please let me know you're okay.
Me: I'm okay.
Damian: When will you come back to the apartment?
Me: I'm not.
Damian: Yes, you are.
Me: …
I didn't reply to his last message, which I thought was autocratic, presumptuous, and rude.
Speaking of all those qualities, Marcela, who possessed them in spades looked like she was going to nail me to the wall just with her glare.
Honest to God, if she hit me, I'd punch her right back. I was tired of being everyone's scapegoat. Enough was enough.
Last night, Moana confiscated my phone because I kept reading gossip sites that said hateful things about me—and then I cried. It was a vicious cycle.
"Mrs. Archer." I opened the door wide so she could step in. I curbed my desire to add, welcome to the slums.
"Emilia. I've been trying to reach you but every time I call, I get your voicemail." There was a snap to her voice. Autocratic much!
I walked into my loft. She followed me.
"My friend took my phone away because I was reading all the mean stuff people were saying about me and crying," I clarified.
I waved a hand at the two armchairs I had. "Have a seat."
Marcela sat down and looked around, perusing my space.
I didn't have much. The loft apartment was small. I had a bed sectioned off with a Japanese scree; and a kitchen area with two counters. I did not have a dining table. I didn't need one. I had two barstools by one of the kitchen counters, which was enough for me. My living room was two armchairs, a coffee table made of eight bricks and a wooden board that I had painted Dali's famous melting watch on. I didn't have a television—I had an iPad. I did have a baller Bose music system because…music.
My studio had two easels. I also had a wall that I hung my paintings on. There was paint splatter everywhere on the floor and the wall, but I tried to keep it located to what I deemed was the studio area. My paints and brushes were on a large wooden table with wheels.
"If you're going to say mean things to me and make me cry, I've got to tell you, I'm all cried out," I warned Damian's mother as I sat down on the other armchair.
"That's a good thing because I have no idea how to console a crying woman. I can't stand them."
Well, that was a solid opening from my soon-to-be former mother-in-law!
How had my life become such a shitshow?
"Did you bring the paperwork that Duncan said he wanted me to sign?" That was the only reason I could see for her being here.
She looked dubiously around my loft. "You live here."
"Yeah. It's my Four Seasons." I was out of fucks right now. It had been a crazy few days and I was living on the edge. If they didn't want to hear my unfiltered words, they should've let me remain invisible.
"You're an artist."
"Is that a question or a statement?"
Marcela grinned. She was a beautiful woman who looked a lot like Salma Hayek. Tate Archer was a handsome man, seriously good looking but when he was with his wife, all eyes were on Marcela. It was no wonder that their kids were gorgeous fuckers.
"Not sure," she replied honestly. "You have anything to drink?"
"Beer, milk, coffee, water…and a bottle of some cheap Rioja that I cannot vouch for. But my friend Moana got it for me until she realized I was concussed, and we decided that I shouldn't drink. We ate chocolate instead."
Marcela's eyes twinkled. "I'll have coffee, black, thank you."
I went to the kitchen area and turned on the Nespresso machine. It was my indulgence. If she didn't like capsule coffee, well…she could go down to the nearest Starbucks and get her poison of choice.
I stuck a Lungo into the machine.
Marcela had followed me and settled down on a barstool. She put her big-ass Christian Dior bag on the top of the counter.
I stood across from her and slid the coffee in front of her. I made myself a cup and waited for her to rain hell on me.
"Before we talk. I have the paperwork."
She pulled out some documents and gave them to me.
There were three of them. One said marriage dissolution decree, the second was an NDA, and the third was a post-nuptial agreement.
"I'm still concussed so it takes me some time to read things. You wanna give me the gist?"
Marcela took a sip of her coffee. "This isn’t horrible. I thought it would be."
"You've never had capsule coffee?"
"It comes from a capsule, so no," Marcela replied haughtily.
I had no words, so I drank my coffee.
"According to the NDA, you don't speak of the details of your wedding, marriage, or any other conversation you ever have with an Archer to anyone."
"Except my legal person, right?"
"Except that," Marcela agreed.
Good, then they wouldn't kill me for telling Moana all the gory details. She better pass that freaking bar exam and stat.
"According to the marriage dissolution agreement, you are effectively ending your marriage. We will add the date when and how we deem appropriate."
I made a face. "Why can't we just annul the marriage?"
"We may, based on how long you and Damian remain married."
"I don't want to be married to him…like at all."
Marcela arched an eyebrow. "What, my son isn't good enough for you?"
I sigh. "Look, lady, I made a mistake, okay. I lost my family over it and my peace of mind. Once the media hounds figure out where I live, they'll be all over me like white on rice. I'm being called horrible names in public. I don't have a job. I…don't want any of this."
Marcela looked confused at this point. "You're not in love with my son?"
I bit my lower lip. That was a trick question. Yes, I was in love with him. No, I didn't want to be married to a man who was in love with my sister. That was all kinds of messed up and the worst kind of heartache.
"Sometimes love is not enough," I said inanely. But for the concussion I would've come up with something less cliched and more brilliant!
Her eyes narrowed now. "Damian said you had a brief affair and got married."
"Yes…but…."
"Were you sleeping with my son while he was with your sister?"
I gasped. "No way!"
"Don't you agree that a brief affair is not a good foundation for a marriage?"
Damn it. I had to come clean with Damian's mother like I had his brother. So, I did. I told her that her son was drunk, and I took advantage of him.
"You got Damian drunk and got him to marry you?" Marcela squeezed the bridge of her nose, shaking her head. "Is that what you think happened?"
"Well…it was impulse; and, yes, he was drunk. I was not. I should've stopped it from happening."
"He's thirty-two, you're twenty-three…he's old enough to make his own mistakes. You're not responsible for him."
Wow! Is she really taking my side? Or am I missing something?
"My son says you're in love and that's why you married. I'm going to have to assume that Damian, who never does anything he doesn't want to do, married you because…honestly, I can't fathom why he married you." There was a tinge of disbelief in her voice.
Yeah, no one can fathom why Mr. Hot Stuff would marry Miss Invisible Ironing Board.
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you pregnant?"
That got a gasp out of me. "If I am we need to go to a hospital because that would be dangerous. I have an IUD."
Women with an IUD occasionally experienced ectopic pregnancies, a rare occurrence that required immediate medical intervention.
Marcela seemed to consider me, trying to figure out what I was saying between the lines. If only she knew, I could barely speak straight—I wouldn't know how to string words together smartly, so they had a subtext.
"You say you've always had a thing for him so why not stay married to him," Marcela mused.
"The wedding with Elvis was momentary insanity. No one wants this level of drama." I waved around as if indicating the drama, I was talking about was between her and me. "I don't want the Archer soap opera. Anyway, you said there's a third document?"
"That's the post-nuptial. It says that upon dissolution of marriage if you behave like a good little girl and don't violate terms and the NDA, you will get one million dollars."
I blinked. These people had so much money.
"Duncan said it was going to be a hundred thousand dollars," I glowered. They thought they could just buy me. Well, fuck them. I wasn't for sale.
"We think a million is fair. After all, as you said, no one deserves the Archer soap opera," she smirked.
I wasn't sure if she was laughing at me or with me. Frankly, I didn't care.
"No."
"A million isn't enough for you?"
"Yes. No. I mean…I don't want the money. Any money! Keep it. I don't need to be compensated for making a mistake. This shitshow is my punishment. Next time, if I'm ever in Vegas…actually, you know what, never going there again." I put a hand to my heart. "Taking that vow right now. I, Emilia Winters, solemnly swear, that I'll never ever marry anyone in Vegas again or even go to that blasted city."
This time Marcela grinned.
I picked up the documents. "I'll get my…ah…legal person to review these. Could you ask your lawyers to send this to me via email? Damian has my email address."
"The documents should be hitting your inbox shortly."
"Thank you. I won't be taking any money."
"Why not?"
I shrugged. "I like to earn my money. I don't need anyone's handout."
"But this would be earned. You snagged an Archer, there should be compensation."
Okay, now that was offensive.
"I didn't snag Damian. We just got swept away in the moment. That's all. And I don't care if Damian's an Archer or a…Smith or whatever. I…," I paused because I was giving too much away. Poor plain Emilia had to get Damian drunk to get him to marry her.
Marcela stood up then. "Show me your art."
I gaped at her. "What?"
I was married to Damian Archer and the great art aficionado Marcela Archer wanted to see my art? This was obviously an alternate universe. I'd wake up any minute and be right back in the normal world where things like this didn't happen to me.
"I said I want to see your art."
She walked to the studio, and I followed her, my hands shaking. If she hated my art, it would gut me and end my career before it even started. But what if she likes it? Yeah, like that could happen.
Her steps were purposeful and confident as she looked at the canvases leaning against the walls, each one a window into my whimsical interpretation of the world.
Marcela paused in front of a large painting titled Dreamscape in the Bay. It depicted the Golden Gate Bridge melting into a sea of swirling, vibrant colors, with floating islands populated by bizarre, dreamlike creatures. A clock tower from the Ferry Building twisted and spiraled up into the sky, blending reality with the surreal.
"This one is very interesting," she remarked. "You're definitely inspired by Dali."
Salvador Dali was one of my favorite artists and the king of surrealism.
"Well, isn't every surrealism artist inspired by Dali?"
"Any other artists you admire?" she asked me as she continued to look at my work.
"I'm a big fan of Leonora Carrington. I find her paintings mystical and fantastical, very dream-like with strong, symbolic imagery."
Marcela moved to another canvas.
"What's this called?"
"What do you think?" I challenged.
The painting showed the iconic San Francisco skyline, but the buildings were bending and warping as if made of liquid, with windows turning into eyes and rooftops sprouting whimsical, oversized flowers.
"City in Bloom?" she offered.
"Urban Mirage."
"I like that much better."
She walked past a couple of canvases and then paused at the one I called The Endless Streetcar. It was my favorite. In the painting, a streetcar floated above a winding road, its tracks dissolving into a series of cascading staircases that led to nowhere. Passengers inside the streetcar had random, elongated faces, reminiscent of characters from a fantastical dream I'd had.
"Well now. This is…," I waited with bated breath and when she said, "magical," I was all but ready to go down on my knees and weep.
"Really?" I couldn't believe it. Marcela Archer came to my loft and said a painting of mine was magical.
"Why on earth are you working as a buyer for a salon company?" she demanded.
I shrugged. "I'm not now. My mother and sister said they needed me. I couldn't turn them down."
"You couldn't turn them down? I thought they were doing you a favor."
"Mama called me and said she needed the position filled desperately. I turned down a job at Sotheby's to work for them."
Marcela's eyes flashed anger. "Why on earth would you do that, considering your talent?"
I looked at my feet, feeling sheepish. She had that impact—very teacher to errant student. "They needed me and if family needs you…well, you show up. Right?"
Marcela put her hands on her hips and stared at me so hard that I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me. "You're nothing like I thought you'd be."
I raised my eyes. "What did you think I'd be like?"
Marcela smiled then and waved a hand. "Doesn't matter. Emilia, you have a distinctive style. Your use of color and form—it's both playful and thought-provoking. It's rare to see such a unique perspective from someone as young as you."
I watched her nervously, unsure of her verdict. Marcela Archer could make or break an artist's career with a wave of her hand.
"Could you say that again so I can record it?" I managed to joke through a throat constricted with emotion. "And can you say your name so everyone will know you said it and it's not AI generated."
My eyes filled with tears and Marcela groaned. "I haven't said one mean thing to you. You cannot cry."
I brushed the first tear that came barreling down my cheek. "I'm just so happy. No one has said anything nice about…well, anything to do with me and that you do it about my work. You can't imagine—"
"Enough." She waved a hand to silence me. "Are you looking for a job?"
"I'm hoping I can work at the museum. I've worked for Dr. Joachim De Jong on a freelance basis."
Marcela arched an eyebrow. "You restore paintings?"
"Yes." I told her about the paintings I'd recently worked on.
"Fuck Joachim, he's a jerk who's probably always staring at your tits when he talks to you."
That was true. But he was the man heading the right department for me to work in.
"You now have a job as an art restorer at Archer Galleries. You start tomorrow." I couldn't speak. I didn't even try. If I opened my mouth, I'd say garbled shit like who, what, why, what, who, la la la la. It wouldn't be coherent or pretty.
"Emilia?"
I smiled uneasily and that's when the thought entered my mind, was she messing with me because she hated me for marrying her son?
"Is this a joke?"
"What would be funny about it if it were?" Marcela demanded.
"I don't know…that you made a fool out of Invisible Miss Winters because she tricked your son into marrying her?"
Marcela glared at me. "First, I don't joke about work. Second, you're out of your mind if you think you can trick Damian into doing anything. He married you because he wanted to."
"But why would he want to?"
"I have no fucking idea. You're a good artist, that is true. You're not suited to be Damian's wife, that is also true. The sooner both you and he understand that, the better it is for you. Damian will be fine, but you? You're way out of your league with him. You'll get eaten alive." She looked at her watch. "I have to go. Tomorrow, eight AM, show up at Archer Galleries. Ask for me. We'll sort the contract stuff out then."
"I don't know what to say." My voice was faint because I did feel a little lightheaded. She'd both complimented and insulted me at the same time. That took some skill.