15. Victoria
15
VICTORIA
My palms sweat as I hold my mother’s gaze from across the coffee table. A pattern of intricate pink roses on the bone white background of her finest China peeks out from between her perfectly buffed nails. Her eyebrows have a delicately suspicious arch.
I knew this was a stupid idea.
My mother is a cynical woman. She sees the world in terms of political alliances and business transactions. So, naturally, anything involving finances or her personal affairs gets the full weight of her attention.
“Why would you need to know that? Why worry about your trust when you know it’ll all be settled after you marry Liam?” she finally asks from behind the rim of her teacup. Despite the bold red lipstick she always wears, not a single stain or smudge dares to mar the perfection of the tea set. It’s a skill I’ve certainly never been able to master.
Her tone is carefully bored, but I know her interest is piqued.
“I’m not a fan of this idea, which you’re well aware of.” I reply flatly, folding my fingers together on my lap to keep from fidgeting. “Still, I want to make sure our money is safe.”
Technically, the trust is mine , but I hope that calling it ours will help her remember we’re family. We should be a team. I want her to think that I care as much for my parents’ well-being as they don’t for mine. She knows I’ve skipped class to meet her today, something I assured her I was more than happy to do, knowing the importance of my upcoming wedding. I’ll take every bonus point I can score with her right now.
Her lips soften at the corners and her eyes seem a bit more caring. I’ve managed to chip away at her defenses. It’s all I can do not to grin, but I maintain a stoic fa?ade.
“You needn’t worry about that, dear.” She takes another sip of her tea as I try not to roll my eyes at her fake compassion. “The Morettis are a good family. They have money of their own.”
I’m almost tempted to tell her that they don’t have any money but I hold my tongue. Professor Moretti—Dante—is right. If I tell my mother about the mob, she’ll just go running to the cops. And there isn’t a chance in hell they’d be able to do anything before Angelo Lombardi or one of his goons finds me.
“I’m concerned about Liam stealing our money.”
My mother leans forward to place her cup on the small, matching saucer as she glances up as if praying for patience. “Victoria, let me remind you, Liam doesn’t need the money in your trust. He’s?—”
“I’d like a prenup.”
Her jaw drops. I’ve managed to surprise her, breaking through her mask of indifference. “Excuse me?”
“Mother, surely you know what a prenuptial agreement is? You had Dad sign one.”
Her hard eyes bore into mine and she purses her lips, unamused by my smartass attitude. “But I went in knowing my place . My position.”
“And I’d feel more comfortable in my position if we had a legal agreement.” I lift my chin, copying my mother’s often-used signal that she’s firm in her decision. “I think it’s only fair to ensure all the T’s are crossed. It would give me the confidence I need to go through with the arrangement knowing I’m safe.”
She watches me for a moment and I can practically see the wheels turning in her mind as she works to solve the puzzle that I’ve presented her. Her eyes drift down my body, taking in my outfit and the way I’ve gently cross my legs at the ankle. I deliberately chose a dress she gifted me last Christmas—it’s a fitted maroon sheath that’s elegant and understated. I can only hope that my attempt to meet her exacting standards for my presentation will make her more willing to speak openly with me. To take me seriously as more than just a pawn in her machinations.
“Then you’ll be reassured to learn there’s a no-divorce clause in regards to your trust. Even if Liam were to leave you and pursue a separation, the money would not go with him.”
“And if he decides to stay? Then who would control the money?”
My mother shifts in her floral chair, a small furrow pinching at the center of her forehead. I hope the chair is as uncomfortable a seat as it suddenly seems. She deserves to be bitten on the ass bigtime for auctioning off her only daughter and arranging a marriage I want nothing to do with.
Thank God I’m not in love with either of the Moretti men. My mother is doing a terrible job of selling me on this marriage shit.
“I can call the lawyer and ask him to draw up a contract,” I volunteer because her silence is all the answer I need. “May I have his number?” I can see her lips twist, preparing to respond, and I hurry to add, “And then maybe I can run some ideas by you for the wedding colors. Unless you had a palette already in mind?” Dante is just going to have to get over me skipping his class tomorrow.
“No,” she murmurs, still focused on my plan to contact the family lawyer. “I don’t.”
“Wonderful.” I finally reach for my own tea. I loathe the drink, but I can choke it down if it will please the woman who gave birth to me today. For now, keeping her happy has to be a top priority of mine.
“There’s another piece to your trust that I may have failed to mention in the past,” my mother declares.
My blood turns to ice in my veins. “Oh?” I murmur softly, suddenly nervous to learn what other strings she’s managed to tie to my future.
“An heir.”
What. The. Fuck?
I nearly choke on my tea and can’t quite hide an unlady-like sputter as I jerk my attention back up to my mother’s face. Her eyes are narrowed slightly and I feel like a bug under a microscope as she studies my every reaction.
“An heir? Of course.”
Of fucking course not.
Kids are cool, but my feelings on the matter start and end there. I’m not looking to produce any children of my own. Not for the foreseeable future or any time after.
“A quarter of your trust will be released to you within thirty days of your marriage,” she elaborates. “The moment you’re pregnant, you’ll have access to another quarter. The rest will be released when the baby is born.”
I can feel rage building in my core, a level of animosity I’ve never felt before now directed at my own mother. The woman who was supposed to raise and protect me from the world. The one who should be encouraging me to find a wonderful man to love instead of ordering me to fall in line with a marriage of convenience.
Unfortunately for my blood pressure, she continues speaking. “God forbid, if you lose the baby and there are health issues…” she pauses delicately, “well, if another pregnancy would put your life in danger, the rest will become yours at that point. If not, you’ll receive the rest after you successfully deliver a child.”
I hate her.
I really do.
Not only has she made sure I’ll be chained to a husband I never wanted, but I’m supposed to bring a child into this world simply because she commands it?
“Whose brilliant idea was this?” I hedge, knowing goddamn well it was hers. My father may be a prick, but he’s generally an absent one and this has my mother’s Machiavellian flair written all over it. The soundtrack of my childhood is her voice reminding me that the Waldorf name must continue. Telling me that I’ll have beautiful children and live the most magnificent life.
Funnily enough, she failed to mention she’d be picking the groom and dictating when I would reproduce.
“I fail to see why that matters,” my mother replies, taking another sip of her tea. “But, considering there will eventually be children, I don’t see why we cannot arrange a prenup if you’d like one. To secure you and your children’s future. We want you to be comfortable, of course.”
Of course.
The only thing she wants is for her only daughter to fulfill the same dated, nineteenth-century duties she’s built her life around. To carry on some bastardized vision of a family legacy.
I can’t do this.
The mob threatening me and breathing down my neck is bad enough. But it may be worth letting them take me out if it means I don’t have to deal with all my mother’s shit.
This isn’t how my life was supposed to go.
I’m supposed to go to Paris, where I can live my dreams and fall in love under the sparkling Eiffel Tower. My passion and hard work were meant to lead to a life filled with more than a legal union with a man I don’t love to save myself from problems I never asked for.
“You look pale, dear. Maybe you should go splash some water on your face, freshen up a bit.”
Mindlessly, I rise from the couch and grab my clutch, abandoning the disgusting tea. Giving me an excuse to catch my breath is the only act of kindness she’s offered me since all this nonsense about marrying Liam began. As I make my way down the hall, I can’t help but think that the trust won’t do anything for Dante and I. Not with all the strings my mother attached to it.
Liam owes six million dollars. My trust is worth more than sixteen million. My wedding will only give us access to a fourth of that—four million dollars. We’ll still be short two million dollars.
Which means we won’t be able to pay the debt until I’m pregnant.
I close the door to the guest bathroom at the furthest end of the house, putting as much distance as possible between me and my mother. I collapse onto the edge of the tub just as the tears start to fall.
Maybe I can run away.
I’m sure there’s someone that can get me a fake ID. I can get documents to go to school somewhere else?—
My cell phone rings and I dig into my purse to fish it out. Dante’s name flashes on the display. There was no way I was going to let him stay in my contacts as “SAVIOR”.
I had forgotten he was listening in on our tea service. That’s the effect my mother has on me.
Anxiety, crippling distress, and fury.
Red-hot anger directed at someone I should love with my whole being.
My phone buzzes again, urging me to pick up and respond. I don’t have the time for a real conversation about what Dante heard, but maybe it’s a moot point. Maybe he wants to call this whole thing off and I’ll be free to come up with another plan.
“Hello?”
“You alright?”
I’m pathetically grateful that those are the first two words out of his mouth. That bit of empathy is the only kindness I’ve received since entering my childhood home this afternoon.
“No,” I answer honestly, more tears falling as a sob works its way up my throat. “I don’t want to do this.”
“I know, princess,” he croons. His low voice wraps around me like a gentle hug. I can feel my shoulders drop a bit, relaxing at the reassuring tone. “We’re gonna figure this out.”
“I don’t want children,” I sob, squeezing the phone. I wish my fingers were squeezing my mother’s neck instead. “This isn’t what I wanted?—”
“I know,” he repeats again, some of his softness disappearing, replaced with a slight edge. “Talk to your lawyer and get the prenup. We’re still going through with this.”
I shake my head because he’s just not getting it. This plan was doomed before we began. Naive little me thought I would receive the full value of my trust once I got married.
Instead, it’s being broken into pieces meant to reward me for sacrificing my future.
“You don’t understand.” I can’t help the slight tremor in my voice. “Just getting married won’t give us enough. My getting pregnant will. I’m not having children. Not now, not for this.”
“Princess—”
“I’m not having children,” I grit out through clenched teeth, rising to my feet and staring at my mascara-streaked face in the mirror. I glare at the broken girl I see, determined not to give up everything she wants as I fight to live my life. “If you need to leave me behind, go. Because the last thing I’m going to do is carry a Moretti kid in my womb and expect him to come out as anything other than an entitled piece of shit .”
Silence fills the air and I worry that I’ve pushed him too far in the midst of my freakout. Dante doesn’t respond—maybe I got lucky and the call dropped. Or maybe I pissed him off and he hung up on me. I glance down at my phone screen.
He hasn’t.
“Finish having tea with your mother,” he orders me calmly. “We’ll meet after you’re done.”
“I don’t want to meet.” There’s nothing more to say. He heard it all.
“We’re going to meet,” Dante growls. “This isn’t over just because you’re having a panic attack in the bathroom.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” I hiss. “I’m not having any?—”
“I heard you.”
Straightening my spine, I take a deep breath and square my shoulders. I can get through this. I’ve had to deal with two insufferable parents all my life. I’ve gone against my mother’s wishes, prioritizing my education despite her protests that college is a waste of time for someone of our status. Now I’m caught up in layers of alliances and maneuvers I never wanted to be part of and have no say in.
Oh, and the mob wants a piece of me—or all of me—too. I can’t imagine being at their mercy.
“Where do you want to meet?” I finally ask as calmly as I can.
“There’s a park nearby that should work. I’ll send you the details.”
“Okay.”
Then he hangs up.
I allow myself a few extra seconds to fix my makeup, quickly swiping a towelette at my stained cheeks and touching up what I can with the compact and lipstick in my purse. In more ways than one, I’m putting my game face on before going to face down the lioness in her den.
This time, my mother decides to play the role of doting mom. She acts as if we’ve been best friends my whole life, ecstatic beyond belief to be planning my wedding.
I’m starting to think she has something other than sugar mixed into her tea.
“Marissa and I were talking about a winter ceremony,” she confesses coyly. She’s clearly trying to bait me into a reaction, gauging whether I’m excited or resentful at the idea of getting married in the next few months. I’m confused about which she really expects, although I’m sure she’d prefer the former.
“A winter wonderland,” I drone, unable to fully hide my distaste. “You know I love the season.”
“Precisely why I thought you’d like the idea.” I try to imagine what it would take to make her abandon this ridiculous scheme. Maybe if I screamed and faked a psychotic break?
“I was thinking of a formal dinner, of course,” she continues. “A live band. Candlelight and white roses.”
The angelic picture she paints couldn’t be further from my own tastes. Live music, sure. I’ve always imagined a string quartet for the processional. The rest? Too stuffy, too pretentious, too her.
“DJ,” I counter, because I have to stick up for something. Even if this wedding is never going to happen.
And I mean never .
She can plan and scheme all she wants, but she can’t control me.
I’m not marrying Liam. I will run to the other side of the world and pray that it’s far enough to keep me safe if I have to.
It would have to be somewhere no one would look for me.
There goes Paris.
I bite the inside of my cheek to help hold back the tears that want to fall. I refuse to let my dream go. I will get to Paris.
One day.
I will snap a selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower and get lost in the Louvre. I’ll wander the grounds of Versailles and uncover every piece of art, historic wonder, and charm to be had in the City of Lights.
My mother does not get my life.
“DJs aren’t for weddings, Victoria,” my mother lightly chides. “However, maybe we can arrange one for later. When all the important people have left and your friends remain.” Her nose scrunches as she considers the idea. “An exclusive after party of sorts.”
Right, because I’m so thrilled to be marrying Liam that I want to party all night long and shout the news from the rooftops.
“I’d like a food truck,” I state, thinking of all the things I would like if I was marrying the man of my dreams. “For the after party. I’d hate for people to go home drunk.”
“That’s…a good idea.” She hates it, but my mother is obviously trying to bend a little. Anything to maintain the illusion that I have a say in any of this.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t snow.” Let’s hope it does . I certainly wouldn’t begrudge a freak blizzard forcing us to cancel the wedding and forget the whole mess.
My mother smirks, knowing all too well what I must really be thinking. “It won’t be an issue. Everyone will be driven in with a horse and carriage.”
She’s got to be kidding. Please, please let her be kidding.
“Will I have bodyguards too, in case I decide to pull a runaway bride?” I scoff.
“If need be. However, I trust that you’ll be happy with how your father and I built your trust. The prenup will be a simple addition, an extra layer of security.”
I’m not sure what universe she’s living in. Tacking a baby clause onto a forced marriage to a cheating, gold-digging asshole isn’t what any sane person would call a happy surprise.
But it doesn’t matter.
I’m working on my own plan.
I’m getting a new identity; I know just the guy to help me out.
And then I’m getting the hell out of here.