Chapter 21
BEN
The suit fitting appointment is at three o’clock downtown, at a boutique that people are known to fly to hours from out of town. My father insisted on coming along, claiming he wanted to be involved in wedding preparations since he’d missed out on so much of my life being busy with work.
The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me.
“Mr. Lawlor?” The tailor, a thin man with careful hands and an Italian accent, gestures toward the fitting rooms. “If you’d like to try on the suit, we can make any final adjustments.”
I disappear into the changing room and pull on the charcoal gray suit.
It fits perfectly—the jacket tailored precisely to my shoulders, the pants hemmed to the exact right length.
When I step out to look in the three-way mirror, I look exactly like what I am: a successful businessman about to make the most important deal of his career.
“Very handsome,” my father says from where he’s sitting in one of the leather chairs, scrolling through his phone. “Freya will be impressed.”
Will she? I wonder. Or will she see what everyone else sees—a man in an expensive suit, playing a role he’s convinced himself he deserves?
“The fit is excellent,” the tailor says, making small marks with chalk where minute adjustments might be needed. “We’ll have this ready for pickup Friday morning.”
“Perfect,” I say, though nothing about this feels perfect. “I’ll send my assistant.”
After I change back into my regular clothes, my father suggests we grab coffee at a place around the corner.
I’m surprised. We rarely spend time together without a specific agenda, and even more rarely do we talk about anything personal.
Then again, he’s been in town all week and maybe he’s bored and needs something to do.
The coffee shop is one of those generic chains full of people working on laptops. We find a table near the window, and my father removes his phone from the table entirely—something I can’t remember him ever doing during our conversations.
“So,” he says, stirring sugar into his coffee with precise movements. “Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
“Are you nervous?”
The question is so normal, so fatherly, that it catches me off guard. “A little. More about the logistics than anything else.”
“That’s understandable. Weddings are complicated affairs. Your mother and I eloped, you know. Went to Vegas, found a chapel, done in twenty minutes.” He smiles at the memory, but there’s something sad about it. “Probably should have put more thought into it.”
This is as close to personal as my father ever gets, and I find myself curious about this rare glimpse into his inner thoughts.
“Do you regret it? Eloping?”
“I regret a lot of things about my marriage to your mother.”
The honesty in his voice stops me cold. My father never talks about his relationship with my mother, never acknowledges the obvious distance between them, never admits that their marriage is anything other than perfectly successful.
“Dad.”
“Oh, don’t look so shocked, Benjamin. You’re thirty-two years old, not twelve.
You’ve seen how we live.” He takes a sip of his coffee and looks out the window at the busy street.
“We’re polite strangers who share a house and a bank account.
We attend social functions together and present a united front to the world, but we don’t… connect.”
I want to say something, but I’m not sure what. This level of vulnerability from my father is completely unprecedented.
“Your mother and I married for practical reasons,” he continues. “She came from the right family, and I had good career prospects. I knew that she would impress my contacts, help me get more press. It made sense on paper. We thought compatibility would develop over time.”
“And it didn’t?”
“Not the kind that matters. We learned to coexist, to avoid conflict, to function as a unit. But we never learned to really know each other.” He looks at me directly for the first time since this conversation started. “That’s not what I want for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I hope you’re marrying Freya because you love her, not because it makes sense for your career or your image or any other practical consideration.”
The irony is so sharp it physically hurts. Here’s my father, finally opening up about the mistakes he made in his own marriage, warning me against doing exactly what I’m about to do. And I can’t tell him the truth because it would confirm his worst fears about the kind of man he raised.
“Of course I love her,” I say, hating how easily the words come. It’s the truth.
So why isn’t this whole thing simpler?
“Good. Because I know what a life without real love looks like, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Especially not my son.”
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us processing this unprecedented level of honesty between us.
“Do you regret marrying Mom?” I ask finally.
My father considers this carefully. “I regret that we never found a way to make each other truly happy. I regret that we settled for a partnership instead of fighting for something deeper. But I don’t regret the marriage itself.”
“Why not?”
“Because it gave me you.” His voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “And despite all my failures as a husband and probably as a father, you turned out to be the best thing I’ve ever done.”
I stare at him, completely unprepared for this level of sentiment. My father has never been the type for emotional declarations or heartfelt moments. Growing up, our conversations were about grades and goals and achievements, not feelings or relationships or personal growth.
“Dad, I…”
“I know I wasn’t the father you deserved,” he continues. “I was too focused on work, too concerned with appearances, too afraid of showing weakness or vulnerability. I taught you to succeed professionally, but I never taught you how to be happy.”
“You taught me plenty.”
“I taught you to be afraid of needing people. To prioritize achievement over connection. To think that love is a luxury you can’t afford if you want to be successful.” He shakes his head. “Those were my mistakes, Benjamin, not wisdom worth passing down.”
The conversation is becoming too intense, too real for the generic coffee shop setting. I feel like we should be having this discussion in a more private place, somewhere that matches the weight of what he’s sharing.
“I hope you do better than I did,” he says finally. “I hope you and Freya build something real together, something that will sustain you through the difficult times.”
“I hope so too,” I manage, though I know we’re building exactly the opposite. The plan is for this marriage to fail.
“Your mother and I will be flying back to California Sunday morning,” he says, returning to more practical matters. “But we’re both very happy for you. Freya seems like she’s turned into a wonderful woman.”
“She is wonderful.”
“Then don’t mess it up the way I did.”
After we part ways outside the coffee shop, I drive to the wedding venue feeling more unsettled than when the day started. My father’s unexpected honesty has forced me to confront some uncomfortable truths about what I’m doing to Freya, and to myself.
I’m about to enter exactly the kind of loveless, practical marriage that my father just described with such regret. The kind of relationship he warned me against, the kind that prioritizes appearances over authenticity.
The kind that will leave both Freya and me as polite strangers who share a legal document and a public image.
The estate looks even more beautiful in the late afternoon light, all golden stone and perfect hedges and flower beds. Freya’s car is already in the parking area when I arrive, and I find her standing in the rose garden where our ceremony will take place Saturday afternoon.
She’s wearing simple jeans and a shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking more like herself than she has during any of our recent public appearances. It’s the way I know her, the way I love her, and though it’s such a simple look, it takes my breath away.
“How was the suit fitting?” she asks when she sees me approaching.
“Fine. Everything’s ready.” I join her in surveying the space where we’ll exchange vows in a few days. “How does it look?”
“Perfect. Michelle has everything under control.”
We walk through the venue together, checking details that have already been checked multiple times. The seating arrangement, the flower placement, the sound system setup. It’s all flawless, exactly what you’d expect from a wedding that costs a stupid amount of money.
But the conversation between us feels stiff, formal. Wrong. This isn’t us.
“Freya,” I say as we finish our walk-through. “Can we sit for a minute? I want to talk to you about something.”
We find a bench in the garden, surrounded by roses that will provide the perfect backdrop for our wedding photos. She perches carefully on the edge of the bench, maintaining space between us that feels deliberate.
“I’ve been thinking about everything you’re doing for me,” I begin. “This whole arrangement, the time you’ve invested, the way it’s complicated your life. I don’t think I’ve adequately compensated you for what this has cost you.”
“Ben, we already discussed—”
“I want to give you an additional five million dollars.”
The words hang in the air between us. She stares at me like I’ve just suggested we run away and join the circus.
“Five million dollars,” she repeats slowly.
“Yes. Beyond what we already agreed on. For everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing. You deserve more than what we originally negotiated.”
“Ben, I can’t accept that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… it’s too much. It makes this feel like…” She struggles for words. “Like I’m being paid to be your wife.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question comes out harsher than I intended, and I immediately regret it. Freya flinches like I’ve slapped her.