3. All The Leverage （Hattie）
ALL THE LEVERAGE (HATTIE)
W hat. Is. Happening?
Those are the only words floating around my brain as I slump down on my couch. Margot crouches in front of me, flicking the pages of one of my old books under my nose.
Old book smell.
Sweet Jesus.
Better than smelling salts for sweeping the shock from your brain.
If I was born in one of those Regency romance novels I pretend I don’t love, I’d totally be one of those bookish wallflowers.
Actually, maybe the truth isn’t so far from that. Arranged marriages happened in those times, too, right?
Where someone older and richer and more powerful just decided your whole future and the poor heroine had no choice but to go along with it.
I have a choice, though.
I need to remember that.
Inhaling sharply, I try to think of something more coherent than oh God, oh God, oh God.
Not easy.
Marry Ethan ?
Being asked to marry anyone on a whim would be bad enough, but when it’s Ethan fricking Blackthorn?
“Keep breathing,” Margot urges gently.
Excellent advice, really.
I take one of the books, which is an old leather-bound copy of Pride and Prejudice —how fitting—and inhale again.
At least my lungs work.
Now I just need to flog my mind back on track.
My bestie looks down with worried blue eyes. She touches my arm.
“Will it help if you drink something? Water? Tea? Hot chocolate?”
I struggle up into a sitting position.
“It’s my place, Margot,” I point out. “I can get my own drink.”
There’s no way I’m letting her look after me when it’s her granddad who died. I’m supposed to be the one comforting her.
Ugh.
Margot rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but I’ve been here often enough. I know where everything is.”
“It’s fine, I can—” My vision blurs.
I double over.
“Hattie, sit down!” She grabs my arms and wrestles me back on the seat. “You’ve just had a crazy shock.”
“I’m good, no worries.”
“Hattie.” She folds her arms. “You looked lifeless a second ago. Whiter than paper.”
“Well, maybe a glass of water. Then I’ll be fine.”
She points at me and clambers to her feet. “Stay right there or I’ll yell at you. Be right back.”
While she’s knocking around in the kitchen, I open the book on my lap and look at the first few lines.
Elizabeth Bennett wouldn’t have been forced into a marriage she didn’t want. There was Mr. Collins, after all, and her mom was pretty certain Elizabeth needed to marry him. But no.
Tragically, I’m no Elizabeth Bennett.
What the actual hell am I gonna do?
Refuse. That would be the logical thing.
You don’t just marry strangers over wonky legal contracts and money anymore. At least, not overtly.
We’re not living in a novel and I shouldn’t be forced down the aisle with a man I don’t love.
On the other hand, if I bail out, that means Ethan won’t get his inheritance.
As bad as he is, that’s a terrible consequence.
What was Leonidas thinking?
Margot returns with a glass of water I slurp down in seconds. My hands are still shaking so much I spill some down my chin.
God, I’m a mess.
“We can talk this out, you know,” Margot says, sitting next to me. “I know he’s my brother. He’s also a colossal pain in the ass. I wouldn’t jump for joy at having to marry him either.”
“Yeah, well. That probably has something to do with the fact that he’s your brother.”
“Yeah, but if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t want to marry him. He’s too—”
“Appalling,” I suggest, trying to picture him in my mind.
I can’t imagine his face without a scowl or that smarmy smirk he’d always wear. Right before he decided to screw with me back when we were kids.
Has the man ever learned any other human expressions?
“Be honest,” Margot says. “How do you feel about it in general, Ethan aside?”
“Um. Like someone ran me down with a truck and backed over me a few times for good measure.”
She nods seriously. “Fair. I used to call him Dump Truck sometimes when we were kids and he’d get all angry.”
“What am I going to do, Margot?” I bury my head in my hands.
The worst part—the absolute worst—is that I don’t hate the idea of being his wife in a freaky abstract way.
Who wouldn’t want to marry a billionaire?
There are whole reality shows like that, I think.
Even if it’s just a chance to live it up rich for a little while.
Attention isn’t really my thing, but it would be a chance to be something more than my usual quiet, readery self.
A rare chance to live an adventure instead of just reading about them.
Unfortunately, that’s when I picture who I have to marry again to make this fantasy come true.
Ethan, standing in a dark suit like he’s waiting to collect my soul, devastatingly handsome and scowling like always.
Scowling at me.
Disapproving and incredibly pissed he’s tying the knot with a woman he’ll never truly want, till death do us part.
Yikes!
I blink to clear the image from my mind.
“You want me to marry him,” I whisper, knowing it’s not a question.
Obviously, she’s on team Hell Marriage or she never would’ve brought in the lawyer.
Margot winces, but before she can argue, there’s a buzz on the intercom and my mom’s voice floats out.
“Honey, it’s me. I’m just pulling up to your building and I’ve got something for you!” she sings.
Holy hell, what timing.
I drop my face back in my hands.
“Oh, man. Not good. Want me to send her away?” Margot asks like the babe she is. “I can say you’re not well.”
I wave her away. “That’s not going to work. If you tell her I’m unwell, she’ll insist on barging in to see me.”
“Even for a cold?” Margot blinks.
“Especially if it’s a cold. Try to keep her away and she’ll break down the door.” Although maybe if we mention a little projectile vomiting, it might give my mom second thoughts.
Then again, she’d probably just talk up the bright side, how maybe I’ll finally lose a few pounds and ‘reset’ my system with a fast.
I stagger up as the intercom buzzes again, and then my phone vibrates. If there’s one thing Mom doesn’t have, it’s patience.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, trying and failing to inject some lightness into my voice. I feel so deflated. “I’m just up here hanging out with Margot.”
“Oh, Margot! Tell her I can’t wait to see her.” Mom sounds delighted.
I knew she would be.
Probably because Margot is everything I’m not: slim, pretty and semi-successful.
“Mom, you’re like two minutes away. Tell her yourself.” I buzz her up with a sigh and make sure to shift my shirt around so it conceals my small belly as much as possible.
I regret that churro now. Unnecessary empty calories, as my health freak Mom would say.
My stomach knots uncomfortably.
“Don’t mention Ethan or… or anything!” I hiss at Margot.
“No weird forced marriage stuff. Got it.” She makes a zipping motion over her lips.
Grit scrapes my eyes as I rub them. I just want to crawl under my duvet with a new book and forget the world exists.
“Hattie, stay strong.” Margot clicks her fingers in front of my face.
Mom chooses that precise moment to knock. As Margot dances over to let her in, I take several deep breaths, mentally fortifying myself for the visit.
It’s not that I don’t love my mom.
I do.
It’s been us against the world for as long as I can remember, and I know she loves me back. It’s just the fact that we have very different definitions of success.
And sometimes I wonder if she’d prefer having Margot as her daughter instead of me.
“Hattie!” Mom gushes, stepping inside in her red designer shoes. Margot helped me pick them out for her two years ago for her birthday, and to her credit, she’s worn them ever since.
Unfortunately, the heels are lethal. I fear for my old wooden floors every time she comes over.
The idea of my apartment, my rules doesn’t really apply to her.
“Hey, Mom,” I say.
“Hi, Julia. How you been?” Margot waves.
Mom’s face brightens the moment she sees her.
“Margot, honey, you look amazing. Have you been working out?”
“Nothing special. Just the usual jog here and there,” Margot says modestly, which really means a two-mile run in New York City or a few laps in the pool at the fanciest gym big money can buy.
“And your hair !” Mom gives me a pointed look. Margot’s sleek gold curls have always been a source of Mom’s personal anguish—because they aren’t mine.
Inwardly, I’m cringing.
I’ve tried to explain genetics a few times, but there’s no point.
“Credit to my stylist. I went to the salon last week,” Margot explains.
“Well, she does fabulous work.” Mom finally looks away from Margot and frowns at my apartment.
I’ll be the first to admit it’s not at its best with my throw rug slumped on the floor and some laundry still hanging on racks.
Oh, and books everywhere.
My standard environment, but Margot went above and beyond by ferreting out all my newest reads, piling them up on my coffee table with curiosity.
Usually, I tidy up before Mom comes around to avoid her pulling that lemon-sucking look of disapproval. But today I didn’t get the chance, and I know when there’s a good old-fashioned lecture coming.
“Really, Hattie, this place gets smaller every time,” she says as she clops to the kitchen. “Have you thought about looking for something bigger?”
I smile without actually smiling.
Margot gives me a sympathetic look as I force myself to stand and follow her, even though I already know what she’s brought.
“They’re just books, Mom. Pretty sure I can fit a few hundred more in before we need to worry about doubling my rent.”
She shakes her head.
“Maybe it’s time you moved on from that silly little bookstore. Do they pay you in books too?” She sniffs. “This is a bit much, dear. Once you’ve read a book, give it away or sell it back to them. You don’t need to keep them around cluttering up your space.”
There it is.
She doesn’t get it.
She doesn’t get me.
She doesn’t even know I read more books on my phone, on my Kindle, from the library. But there are times when nothing beats having real paper you can hold in your hands.