The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 23

Bryce gives me a wary stare as he steps into the elevator late in the morning. “Why are you smiling?” His gaze drops to my coffee. “It can’t be that.”

I instantly pull the corners of my lips down. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. It’s super unnerving, especially since I know it isn’t because you fucked up Ethan Beckman.”

My mouth tightens until I feel brackets forming around the corners. The mention stirs the annoyance I’ve pushed aside since yesterday, when I learned my wife hired that asshole. Just what the hell is wrong with us? We Huxleys live and breathe law, revel in gutting our clients’ opponents and building liability-free empires for them. Hell, I would’ve done it for free.

Bryce peers at me. “Don’t tell me he fucked you over.”

I grind my teeth. “It’s complicated.”

“Nothing ever good follows when somebody says ‘it’s complicated.’”

“Lareina hired him.”

“Beckman? Why?” Bryce says the word with half despair and half outrage, like a teenager who just learned that porn isn’t real. “For what? A prenup?”

“To sort out her financial affairs and get the parasites off her trust.”

Bryce’s jaw drops. He’d be excellent at that. “She doesn’t need Beckman for that! What am I, chopped liver?”

“No. Liver is nutritious.”

“Not funny.”

“Wasn’t a joke.”

“What does she see in him?”

“He came recommended.”

“By whom?” Bryce seethes.

“Obviously somebody with terrible judgment.”

The elevator stops on my floor and I step out, almost bumping into Kenna.

“Excuse me,” she says with a small, embarrassed smile.

“My fault.” I note layers of bandage wrapped tightly around her left wrist. Normally I’d ignore it—after all, engagement is encouragement. So many girls thought any sort of response from me was a sign I wanted them, and it led to some unpleasant endings. But I think of her scars, and the question tumbles out. “Are you all right?”

“What?”

I jerk my chin at her wrist. “The bandage.”

“Oh, that? It’s nothing. Just some wrist pain, probably carpel tunnel.” She drops the arm and brings down the sleeve like a cover. “They have really nice cold-drip coffee,” she says suddenly, pointing at the coffee in my hand. “Maybe one of these days you can buy me one.” Immediately she turns red. “I meant I’d treat you to one.”

The mistake should be charming, especially with the deep blush on her objectively pretty face. But my gut is quiet. “Why?”

“Um.” She blinks a few times. “Don’t you like free coffee?”

“I prefer to pay for my own.” I turn around and head to my office.

Why are you doing this? She could be Queen.

I don’t know, and don’t want to dwell on it. I always thought if I ran into Queen again, I’d feel that unmistakable connection. But nothing like that wells in my chest, not even a little.

I spot Akiko near Dad’s office. Must be one of their occasional lunch dates. She’s looking chic and lively as usual, but then, she’s always energetic. I’ve never seen her cry or look despondent. The woman is like human sunshine.

“Ares,” she says, “you look good today. You have a court appearance or something?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Oh, some free time. How nice.” She smiles.

Is she subtly hinting for me to bill more hours? Although she’s been in the States for a long time now, she sometimes reverts to her old Japanese habits and beats around the bush rather than getting straight to the point. She might’ve heard Dad say something about my promotional prospects. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m planning to work at my desk.”

She purses her lips. “That… Well, work is very important, of course, but don’t you think your wife might need some time with you?”

“Lareina?”

“She was a little down, trying on clothes all alone in your living room, until I intervened.” Vague disapproval mars the perfectly smooth skin between her eyebrows. If she’s too upset to notice she’s wrinkling her skin, she’s really distraught, which I hate to see. She might not be my biological mother, but I like her and respect her. She’s done the best she could with the traumatized teenager she inherited when she married my dad.

“It’s more convenient that way,” I say.

“Not convenient. Lonely! What’s the purpose of shopping if nobody’s there to offer opinions?”

Akiko wants a specific type of response, but…what? I’ve never cared about what others thought. I buy whatever I feel like. “You don’t need opinions, do you?” I ask gingerly.

“Of course I do! Nothing brings me joy like your father calling me beautiful.”

Ah, I get it now. “I think my wife is beautiful.”

“Have you told her?” Akiko asks.

“Yes, of course.” Have I? I think I have… Haven’t I?

“If you don’t tell her, she’ll never know. She can’t read your mind.” Akiko smiles. “Deep inside my heart, I know your father loves me. But sometimes I need to be told, reassured we’re still on the same page.”

I force a smile which hopefully looks natural. Dad, Grandmother and Aunt Jeremiah have probably guessed why I married Lareina, but not Akiko. She refuses to get involved in the inner workings of the firm, saying the American legal business is beyond her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Take her to that art auction,” she says. “The one next month. It’s going to feature a lot of amazing art. Buy her something pretty.”

“Why not just jewelry?”

Akiko shakes her head. “Jewelry is cliché. Besides, I already gave her the pearls I got from Japan.”

“The pearls I got from Japan” is how she always describes the heirlooms from her zaibatsu family. They give them to the women who marry into the family. The fact that Akiko is giving them to Lareina means not only am I fully a member of the family on her side, but so is Lareina.

Guilt needles at me. The marriage isn’t even real.

Well. You could make it real by staying together.

But it’s—

Suddenly my previous objections fade away. My wife makes me laugh. She even put a smile on my face without my realizing it. She’s so vulnerable yet strong, like a tree standing tall and powerful in a hurricane, and I have this strange, instinctive need to protect her, so she doesn’t break in the storm.

I frown. Good God. How have I become so sentimental? This is…unnatural. “I have to go now. Enjoy your lunch,” I say brusquely to hide the need to run and hide from the disquiet welling in my chest.

Forcing myself to keep a measured step, I head to my office. My phone pings.

–Unknown: Just because you’re trying to send me to jail doesn’t mean it’s over between us!

Oh boy. This must be Soledad, who finally figured out that I blocked her number over the weekend. Doesn’t she realize that reporting her behavior to the police signifies our relationship has gone past the point of no return?

There are district attorneys who admire my grandmother. They wouldn’t go easy on a “criminal,” especially somebody who tried to harm Catalina Huxley’s grandson.

–Unknown: I’m out. And in L.A. We need to talk. You should drop the baseless charges. You owe me that much.

I start to type, I owe the DA on your case unshakable testimony to put you in jail for a while, then stop. Engaging is encouraging. What she wants is my attention.

I delete my text and block the number. My phone buzzes again.

–Unknown: You’re a stubborn child, aren’t you?

Harvey or Mom. The possibility of the latter makes the nerve behind my eye twitch a little.

–Unknown: Do you think running is going to solve your problems?

Harvey.

–Unknown: Your wife isn’t what she seems.

She can be whatever she wants. She kept me out of your clutches.

–Unknown: Do you know she’s your mother’s goddaughter? Didn’t you ever wonder why she was so eager to help you? It’s because she needs to, for Zoe.

–Me: I don’t believe you.

If Lareina is really Mom’s goddaughter, why didn’t Mom do something to help? She could’ve swooped in like an angel, dazzled the poor girl who’d been abused for so long, then used her to fuck Harvey up. After all, Lareina is beautiful enough to attract attention, and Harvey’s a sucker for a pretty face.

–Unknown: See for yourself.

A photo of Lareina and my mother at an Italian bistro half an hour or so from here. Lareina is in a T-shirt and jeans, her unbound hair falling behind her in waves. She holds a glass of white wine without drinking it. Meanwhile, Mom… She hasn’t changed one bit. Still the same hair, although she dyed it auburn, to remind Vincent that she too is his flesh and blood. She must’ve realized by now that her father never loved her mother that much. He loves power and control, not his women or the children they bore for him.

I look for any signs of coercion or tension on Lareina’s face, but there’s nothing. My gut burns, even as I tell myself it’s gotta be a fake. These days AI can produce all sorts of seemingly real images.

–Unknown: A photo fresh off the press, so to speak. They’re still there, lingering over pasta and wine. Must have a lot to say to each other. Probably plotting a way to destroy you. You have a choice, Ares. You can either join me and destroy your mother or do nothing and become her puppet. Up to you.