SKYLAR
My nails run up and down my arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Being able to scratch my wrist without shoving a pencil under the wrapping is downright orgasmic.
Or maybe it’s been too long since I’ve experienced anything vaguely related to an orgasm.
I do it again, rubbing in the white scratch marks I leave behind.
No, it’s just that good. I don’t know how people wear casts for months.
I only had mine on for a few weeks, and it was starting to drive me to the brink of insanity.
I move my hand, flipping it over from back to front.
I have full range of motion, but my wrist is still a little stiff.
I’ll still need physical therapy for a couple of months, but as of right now I am cast-free.
And ring-free. I finally took it off before coming to my appointment.
The last thing I needed was Dr. Joyce’s questioning eyes.
She wouldn’t have commented on it because she’s too professional, but I know she would have been wondering.
The thought of that ring brings me back to a few days ago when Declan made the executive decision to tell Ash about our unfortunate legal issues.
I didn’t think I could hate him more than I already did, but he proved me wrong.
Of course, physically pushing him out of my office and slamming the door in his face felt almost as good as scratching my arm.
With my cast off, I head to my second appointment.
Dr. Joyce’s office is right here in town, so I didn’t have to worry about driving.
Since my dad’s lawyer is further away, I asked him to meet me at my office instead, and he agreed.
I know I’m going to have to get over this fear of driving at some point.
Luckily, I live within walking distance to my job, a grocery store, coffee shop, and a doctor, but there’s going to come a time when I have to go somewhere beyond Main Street.
I store the thought in the back of my mind for another time.
Right now, I need to do what I’ve been putting off for the last few weeks.
My father’s attorney has been attempting to contact me since the funeral, but I couldn’t deal with it yet.
Patrick Ross looks to be in his late fifties, with a sharp jaw and salt-and-pepper hair.
He’s not just my dad’s attorney, but he was a personal friend of his.
That’s only one of the reasons I’ve been avoiding him.
The other is that I know exactly why he’s been trying to track me down.
He sits on the opposite side of my desk, a poker face firmly in place, and I wonder if Joseph Jonas has a poker face or if he wears his heart on his sleeve like I do.
I finally got the guts to call him, and we set up an appointment for next week.
One I promptly texted Declan about, and he promptly read and ignored.
“Thanks for coming to me, Mr. Ross,” I say by way of breaking the ice. “I appreciate it.”
“Patrick. And it’s not a problem. This should be pretty quick, Skylar.
” He produces a few papers from his briefcase.
“Doug—your father— had everything in order. Given his health issues, he made sure every ‘I’ was dotted and ‘T’ crossed. I take it you didn’t have any issues with the funeral arrangements? ”
The irony of his words isn’t lost on me.
My father began having cardiac issues a few years ago, and after a particularly bad health scare, he asked me to move back here.
I had just graduated from college, and my job prospects in California were abysmal.
He told me about an opening at the Lantern if I was willing to relocate.
He said he had regrets. He wanted to mend the mile-long fences that stood between us.
“Skylar?”
I look up to see Patrick still waiting for a reply.
“I’m sorry. Yes, the funeral was fine. Everything was organized.”
“Great. Well, as I’m sure you know, your father left behind many assets, including his home, business, and a sizable trust fund in your name, as well as—”
“Hey, Patrick?” I blurt. His hand, reaching out to give me a paper, stops midair. “What do you know about annulments?”
Might as well ask while I’m here. Plus, I’m not ready to hear about the stipulations my father made for how and when I can access this “sizable trust fund.”
“Um. Well, that depends. What about them?”
“How hard is it to obtain one?”
Patrick shifts in his chair, dropping both his hand and the paper onto the desk. “That also depends.”
“On?”
“Many aspects. The nature of the marriage, the duration. Basically, you have to be able to prove the marriage was not legally valid.
“Can you define ‘legally valid?’”
Patrick uncrosses his legs, hitting me with that same look of concern my father used to give me. The one that made it hard to tell if the worry was for me or for how my problems would affect his reputation. “Skylar, may I ask where this is coming from?”
“Can I plead the Fifth?”
He lets out a nervous chuckle. “We’re not in a courtroom, so it’s not necessary, but of course you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Okay, maybe he’s not so bad.
Sighing, I look over at the framed picture on my desk, just left of my computer.
It’s of the day I graduated from college, a light purple lei around my neck, my mom and stepdad standing next to me, their wide smiles reflecting in the sunshine.
I look genuinely happy. It was before my dad asked me to move, before I realized I had a better chance of winning the lottery than getting a job as a journalist. I was still full of a warm, intoxicating hope that took four years to cultivate.
Now, here I am right back where I started, entangled in painful memories.
“I accidentally got married,” I decide to tell Patrick because I’m sure he already suspects as much.
“I see.”
“You don’t look as horrified as I feel.”
“Skylar, did your father ever talk to you about the nature of your trust fund?”
“He tried,” I answer honestly. “But I didn’t really want to talk about it.
My mom never wanted his money.” She left without a dime when I graduated high school and decided to follow me to California.
She rented a little bungalow on the beach, opened up a mobile flower shop, met my stepdad, and started living the life she had always wanted.
“I see..” He adjusts his tie. Clears his throat.
“Skylar, part of what I wanted to discuss with you is the stipulations attached to the trust. Originally, you had a trust fund set for your twenty-fifth birthday, provided you met certain requirements. However, upon your father’s death, all his assets, excluding the business he left to his brother, were also placed in a trust for you. ”
“I’m not surprised. Everything with my dad usually came with a price tag.”
Patrick winces, clearly uncomfortable with my honesty, but that’s too bad. The truth is sticky sometimes.
He schools his features, bringing his lawyer mask back up. “The thing is, the trust states that you can receive access on your twenty-fifth birthday, provided you are employed full-time and…are married.”
I tilt my head to the side, narrowing my eyes until Patrick is nothing but a blurry gray form. “I’m sorry, what?”
“The trust states—” he continues, no doubt planning to repeat his entire sentence.
“That was a rhetorical question,” I interrupt him.
He pauses, folding his hands in his lap as he awaits my next move.
“Why would he want me to be married?” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but it still pisses me off when he doesn’t answer right away.
“I’m sorry,” he eventually says. “Was that another rhetorical question?”
That’s when it all connects. He didn’t trust me.
People don’t call it a “trust fund” for nothing, right?
My father didn’t think I could make the right decisions with his millions without someone else helping me make them.
A husband. All of his so-called regrets, all of his half-hearted attempts at apologies for making me feel invisible when I was growing up—it all meant nothing because the whole time he was planning for this.
Even if he hadn’t died, he wouldn’t have let me see a penny without having a man beside me, preferably a junior CEO who likes the same teams as him.
The lump in my throat grows, suffocating whatever optimism is left.
Deep down, I knew the meeting would end poorly, but I still held out hope that my father could have had the tiniest bit of faith in me.
It’s not about the money. I never wanted anything monetary from him.
I accepted his help getting a job, but that’s where it ended.
In retrospect, I shouldn't have even done that.
I should have bided my time in California.
I stand up from my chair, willing my voice not to crack. “I think we’re done here, Mr. Ross.”
Patrick is quick to rise from his seat. “Look, Skylar. If we could just discuss the situation further, it sounds like this might be a bit of a silver lining.”
“I’m sure it does, but I don’t want his money, so there’s nothing left to discuss.”
Patrick nods his head, putting the papers back into his briefcase. “I understand you need some time. Call me when you want to meet again.”
That won’t be happening, but I give him a curt nod all the same. He disappears down the hallway, and I slump back in my chair. I’m angry, but it’s more than that. There’s a bone-deep ache in my chest because I thought he finally saw me, but just like with Declan, I was so na?ve.
That stops now.