Something Convenient

Chapter 1

JULES

I’m well aware of my reputation.

Rebel. Hellcat. She-devil. Headache-on-wheels.

Those are the things people whisper about me.

But I know who I am. I’m Julissa Mei Lannister. And after 26 years of instantly becoming the outcast in every room I’ve ever stepped into, I wear each insult like a badge of honor these days.

I’ve built myself up so strong, my armor is un-dent-able now.

Even still, the scene at tonight’s family dinner is a vindication of sorts. It confirms that this extra-spicy temper of mine is a hereditary thing.

Because let’s be so fucking for real—Great-Grandma Josephine is certifiably unhinged.

“Pregnant…? Did you say you’re pregnant…?”

The elderly woman’s question rumbles from one end of the twenty-foot black walnut dining table to the other.

The dinnerware clatters, the chandelier shakes, the wallpapered walls hold their breath in terror. Great-Grandma’s dainty, little Chanel suit and pristine silver sponge roller curls aren’t fooling anyone. The woman is terrifying.

Cousin Gina’s shoulders clamp up around her earlobes and her blonde head bobs on a slow, reluctant nod. “Y-yes…” Her response comes out as a quiet squeak, barely rising above the Frank Sinatra ballad playing on low.

Walking stick gripped in one weathered hand, Josephine the Terror hobbles up out of her chair. With her other palm, she absentmindedly thwacks at the cassette player sitting on the hand-carved antique sideboard.

“Speak up louder, dear,” she says, a vicious bite in the high-fructose sweetness of her words. “I don’t believe I heard you correctly. What was that you just said?”

Gina’s voice is shaking when she speaks again. “I’m”—gulp—“pregnant.”

Frank Sinatra keeps on crooning, his soothing vocals gliding over the room. It’s a stark contrast to the prickly electric charge that’s quickly building in the air.

The family matriarch turns toward the sideboard and smacks at the cassette player again. “How do you shut this thing off?! Martha! How do you shut this darn thing off?!” She keeps smacking until she knocks the prehistoric gadget right over the edge, sending it into freefall.

In a move that would qualify her for a spot on any Olympic volleyball team, Martha, the long-time housekeeper, lunges into the room and catches Great-Grandmother’s beloved cassette player right before it hits the hardwood floor.

The music dies an abrupt death.

The dining room nose-dives into a nerve-tickling silence.

And Great-Grandma starts ranting.

“I have had enough of you unmarried heathens getting impregnated out of wedlock and desecrating the Lannister family name!” She jabs her walking stick into the floor.

“Each generation of you is more disappointing than the last. Do you know how much sacrifice went into building this fortune?” She gestures to the ornate, gilded room around us.

“You take all of this for granted, you entitled fools. How long before the empire your great-grandfather spent his life building is reduced to nothing but a garage sale outside the front gates?”

The tiny, manicured woman rants and rants, her voice cracking and quaking with the intensity of her rage. Keeping my head down so as not to catch any strays, I slurp a spoonful of my mysterious white soup.

Great-Grandma has always been a firecracker, and there’s usually at least one totally unhinged moment at every Lannister family dinner. Today, the matriarch is not taking kindly to Cousin Gina’s unexpected pregnancy announcement.

At all. Like, at all.

“But…but w-we’re getting married,” Gina blurts out. “I promise. Darryl and I are engaged.” She throws a pleading glance toward her soon-to-be baby daddy. “We’re engaged, right?”

Engaged? Ha! I’m sure that’s a stretch.

Darryl splutters a cough, choking on his own spoonful of soup. When his bulging eyeballs collide with Great-Grandma’s death glare, he gives his head a rapid nod, his hand swiping at the liquid currently dribbling down his chin. “Right. Engaged. We’re…engaged.”

I blatantly roll my eyes. Over the past two years, Gina has attended each and every family gathering with a different plus-one. Based on my calculations, she and this Darryl guy have been dating for no more than twenty-one business days.

For the baby’s sake, I hope that things will work out between the two of them, but to be quite honest, Darryl looks a tad squirrelly. I’d be astonished if he’s still around by the end of the calendar year.

But I keep my opinions to myself. Instead, I take another spoonful, trying not to slurp too loudly and earn a stink-eye from Great-Grandma.

My god—this soup is awful.

But it’s Great-Grandma’s favorite first course dish, so it’s regularly on the menu here at the Lannister family estate.

I don’t get what all the hype is about. To me, it basically tastes like flavorless beans in plain watery broth.

I’d never dare to say that out loud, though. Especially not right now.

My phone buzzes in the front pocket of my jeans. My heart jumps hopefully. A sale? Please be a sale…I sneak a peek at the screen of my device.

Nope. Not a sale.

My optimism deflates. I haven’t gotten one single purchase order in my online storefront since last Tuesday. My one-woman T-shirt business is hanging on by a thread. The expenses are piling up. I don’t know how much longer I can keep holding on.

But on the bright side, I do have a new unread text message from my best friend, Alba.

Alba: Hey hun. Is family dinner almost over? What time do you think you’ll get here?

I suppress a groan.

I’m not getting out of here anytime soon. I’m afraid that this pregnancy drama is going to drag out the multi-course meal even longer. I have places to be tonight, and every minute sitting here feels like I’m losing hours off my life.

Unfortunately, I have one of those faces that does little to hide my feelings, so I’m sure my annoyance is on full display. But luckily for me, Josephine The Terror is too busy reading my cousin the riot act to notice my current resting bitch face.

I only come to these painful family dinners to play nice and keep up the family image. Why?

Trust fund.

The answer is my trust fund.

I turn 27 in just a few months, which means it’s almost time to collect on the lump sum that’s been promised to me. Correction—the lump sum that’s owed to me. I’d say I’ve earned every damn penny that’s coming my way.

Sure. I sound like a spoiled brat, but I’m nothing like my cousins and half-sisters who are seated around this oversized dining table.

For starters, I don’t plan to spend my inheritance on a yacht or a luxury penthouse or a dozen new pairs of designer shoes.

My portion of the family fortune is going to go into investing in my T-shirt business.

I launched my little venture years ago, but without the proper equipment, storage and advertising that I need, I haven’t been able to get it off the ground. With my current setup, for every shirt I manage to sell, I’m only making pennies.

I have such big visions. I just need the funds.

The truth is, despite all her rough edges, I do love Great-Grandma Josephine. She’s a tough old broad who takes no crap. I admire that. But I don’t fit in here. Because to the rest of the family, I’m the outsider. The black sheep. And it’s a label I won’t ever be able to rebrand.

Because I can’t change what I am. My father’s affair baby. The everlasting reminder of my daddy dearest’s infidelity.

Hello. I’m Julissa Mei Lannister, and this is my villain origin story.

Kidding.

Sort of.

These fantastic little family dinners do nothing but fill me with food I can’t pronounce and remind me that I don’t belong here.

I’m so unlike my blonde, blue-eyed half-sisters that no one would ever fathom to guess we’re related. And not just because of the Japanese heritage I acquired from my mother. I have zero in common with these people, other than our shared dad.

I almost feel bad for looking forward to getting my cut of the Lannister riches. It doesn’t feel right to take anything from people who wouldn’t notice if I keeled over tonight. But I really, really need the money to get my business going.

History has already proven that I’m not cut out for the typical nine-to-five.

I’ve lost track of how many different jobs I’ve burned through in the last few years.

I just can’t stand all those power-tripping egos bossing me around, trying to give me shit, and treating me like I’m not worthy of the tiniest morsel of respect just because they sign my paycheck.

And it’s definitely in the best interest of my current boss that I get away from him ASAP. I just might accidentally uppercut Mr. Drummond the next time he makes some shitty suggestion about shortening the length of my work uniform. I can’t stand the man.

I’m sitting here, mentally planning out the perfect eff-you speech for the pervy, old bastard, when I hear Great-Grandma bark out the words trust fund.

I pause, spoon in the air, immediately locked in on her announcement.

“You know what? I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” she says, defiantly lifting her chin. “I’m going to amend all of your trust funds.”

A collective gasp goes up around the table.

“Our trust funds…?”

My cousins and half-sisters exchange looks.

“Yes, that’s right.” Great-grandma squares her slender shoulders. “I’m going to call my lawyer first thing in the morning. So not only will you have to wait until your twenty-seventh birthday to be eligible to collect your money, but now you’ll also need to be married.”

My spoon clatters loudly as it falls into my bowl. W-w-wait!!

Cousin Toby fumbles his wine glass and maroon liquid spills across the white table cloth. “What?!”

“Yes. You heard me,” Great-Grandma goes ahead, unbothered.

Married?!