The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 2

–twenty-two years later

“It won’t be possible for you to make junior partner. Thought we should inform you before the official announcement,” says Catalina, my grandmother and the matriarch of the family.

Her voice is supposed to be soothing, but it only pisses me off. “Are you shitting me?” I say in a flat monotone, unmoving in my seat. My eyes scan TF, short for The Fogeys—what my brothers, cousin and I call the elders behind their backs.

Grandmother sits at the head of the table, her jet-black hair pulled into a chignon. It’s the style she’s favored since her years as a highly successful prosecutor in L.A.—it makes her appear both stern and elegant. Her skin is pale with very few wrinkles, and she’s in a cool blue dress that intensifies her eye color.

To her right is my father, Prescott Huxley, a senior partner at Huxley & Webber, who wields his tongue like a scalpel to shred his opposing counsels into little, mewling ribbons. His hair is as dark as Grandmother’s, but he keeps his cropped, all clean cut and controlled. He has a booming voice, but rarely raises it. He doesn’t need to in order to get attention. His confidence alone is sufficient. Not only that, he’s in one of his black three-piece bespoke suits he reserves for court appearances, although he had no such thing today. He silently munches on a miniature tiramisu from the dessert trays before him, his pale gray eyes on me. The delicate sweet looks awkward in his large hand, but he adores the little desserts Grandmother serves when the family gets together.

Aunt Jeremiah sits opposite him, her hair once again dyed a deep, rich red—which inspired a joke that her hair periodically turns that shade from being drenched in the opposing counsels’ blood. Also a senior partner at Huxley & Webber, she believes in winning at all costs and commands both respect and fear. She’s drinking a glass of Merlot and puffing on a cigar. Her son Huxley thinks she only smokes cigars to celebrate a victory, but she also indulges when she’s feeling particularly tense. Her well-fitted, hand-stitched ebony skirt-suit projects power and control. Complete overkill—I should’ve realized this wasn’t going to be a friendly evening chat.

“We wouldn’t joke about your career.” My father pushes the dessert tray in my direction, as though a bit of sugar will be enough to coax me into a better mood.

“Why can’t I get the promotion I deserve?” I demand.

“You aren’t owed a promotion,” Aunt Jeremiah points out.

“My clients love me, and I draw new clients. Not only that, I bill more hours than anybody else, and the work is exceptional. People respect it.”

“Yes, but you don’t know how to balance your life. And you do the bare minimum of mentoring,” Dad argues.

“I aim for quality and quantity. Just ask.” The junior associates never complain about me. Most compete to have me on their side.

A short silence falls over the table. Grandmother adds more sugar to her tea and stirs it in.

“You know I deserve this promotion,” I say. “Ethan fucking Beckman is making junior partner this year.”

Grandmother frowns. Ethan Beckman is my nemesis and the right-hand man of John Highsmith, a name partner at a rival firm. He loves stealing our clients and doing everything in his power to fuck up our cases. Everyone at Huxley & Webber loathes him. “Be that as it may, you exhibit an unhealthy obsession.”

“What unhealthy obsession?” I demand. I’m the opposite of obsessed. I do everything in my power to stay as detached as possible from everyone, except family. Hell, I’ve only had four girlfriends.

“The girl from Oregon.”

I freeze. Queen.

“We’re worried about you.” Grandmother closes her eyes briefly and sighs. “I know you’re still looking for her.”

“She was there.”

“Ares, your mother drugged you.” Grandmother sounds pained.

“Are you saying I was delusional?”

Dad clears his throat, his eyes soft with sympathy. He’s speaking as my father, rather than a senior partner. “You said you ate the girl’s bread.” His eyes fall on the tiramisu in his hand. He places it on a napkin.

It’s clear that he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t think I’m lying, necessarily, but he’s convinced I couldn’t have overcome my hunger and thirst in the face of the treats Mom left out for me. In order to protect myself, I made up the girl and the bread she brought.

My hands clench. I’m not crazy. I didn’t make up anything about what happened.

“If she was there, we would’ve found her by now. Jeremiah looked for her, too, remember? Her people are thorough.”

Aunt Jeremiah gives me a sympathetic look mixed with pity, then looks away in discomfort. Compassion really isn’t her thing.

But her feelings aren’t my focus right now. Bitter disappointment curdles in my belly like milk gone bad. “You want me to give up on her.”

“We want you to live in the present,” my father says. “It isn’t healthy. It’s been twenty-two years.”

“Bullshit.” I lift my gaze at the coat of arms above the wall behind Grandmother. A trio of silver wolves snarl on a shield with the family motto in all caps: PIETAS ET UNITAS. Loyalty and unity. It’s embedded in us. Even before we’re born, the family has special canes crafted for us with a Huxley wolf as the knob and the motto engraved along the body so we never forget.

Of course, loyalty and unity are reserved for the family, but as far as I’m concerned, Queen is more than family. She was my savior. How can I abandon her just because the search is taking longer than I’d like? How can I call her “not real” just because The Fogeys insist?

“I’m a Huxley. I don’t give up.”

Dad downs his whiskey. He’s stressed. Aunt Jeremiah swirls her wine glass, her unblinking eyes on me. Grandmother merely taps the table.

“Even if you may never be a partner?” Grandmother says finally.

“Even then.” My eyes slide over to Dad. “There are other firms.” A bluff. I can’t imagine myself anywhere but Huxley & Webber. It’s a family legacy, something I’ve rightfully earned through my hard work. However, you can’t negotiate from a position of weakness.

Grandmother inhales sharply, her face stiffening. “You’d betray the family for her?”

I give her a hard look. “Didn’t you betray me first by denying me the promotion I deserve?”

“Fine. Get married and settle down.”

What the hell? “Where am I going to find a wife?” I demand, wondering if they’re trying to maneuver me into an arranged marriage the way they did with my cousin, Huxley.

“That’s not our concern,” Grandmother says nonchalantly. “But prove to us you aren’t mad with obsession. Marry a good, respectable woman. Have a good, respectable family of your own.”

“I’ll marry a woman that fits your criteria before the annual review, and you’ll make me a junior partner this year,” I say.

“If you marry by then.” Grandmother arches an eyebrow in a cool challenge. “But can you?”

“Don’t ever underestimate my will, Grandmother.” I look at the two elders seated on either side of her. “Father. Aunt. It won’t even take a month.”

“Then we’ll expect to be introduced to your wife in thirty days.” Aunt Jeremiah’s placid smile says the sky will fall first.