Say It Like a Weapon

I didn’t answer right away.

How could I? The words “Marry me” were what I least expected to hear from him. The words also ricocheted off every scar and memory I’d tried to bury.

I stared at my hands. My knuckles were already white against the linen napkin. I could feel the ghost of his proposal in the air between us. It was just so impossible to ignore.

He can’t be serious. I thought. He knows what this would mean. What it would cost for both of us.

I tried to picture it. Anderson and I, married. Not as reckless teenagers sneaking out after a curfew, or avoiding the disapproving looks of their parents, but as adults, battered by the world and their family. Since I didn’t have any. The thought was just so ridiculous that I almost laughed. Almost.

But I didn’t laugh. It wasn’t something to laugh about.

Then it seemed that my mind had gaslit me. Maybe I had heard the wrong thing. He probably said something else and thought it was that.

I asked, so I could clarify that my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me.

“I’m sorry, did you just ask that I marry you?”

Anderson wasn’t fazed. “You heard me.”

I straightened my back, then my eyes narrowed on him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I weren’t.” his voice held a strong hint of certainty.

“You’ve lost your mind,” I shot back.

“Possibly,” he said calmly, folding his hands on the table. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Elaine. I am not proposing because I’m in love with you.”

I wasn’t going to lie. Hearing that made my heart feel like it was being squeezed by a cold, metal fist. I wasn’t expecting him to declare his unwavering love for me or anything, but it would have been better if he had kept quiet about not loving me that way.

A tiny part of me knew it was fair.

I masked my pain with a bitter scoff. “Well, thank God for that,” I muttered, then rubbed a hand across my jaw. “Why would you– what do you think this is?”

“I think this is an opportunity,” he replied. “For both of us.”

A dry laugh clawed its way up to my throat. “For both of us,” I repeated jestfully. “Anderson, please, what part of this mess screams ‘opportunity’ to you?”

“You need power,” he started. “I have it. You need a shield. I can give it. You want to rise again, and I want to help you.”

I stared at him, my heart a steady drumbeat of disbelief. “How is marrying me going to do that? It’s absurd. Don’t you see how absurd this is?”

Yes, I knew I wanted all those things he mentioned, and that was why I wanted to use him in the first place, but I didn’t mean marriage.

He shook his head once. “You are not getting the big picture. This isn’t sentiment. It’s a strategy. You said it yourself. You are trying to survive.”

A silence settled between us. The wine glass was still half full. I had the sudden urge to throw it across the room.

I laid my fingers tightly in my lap. “And you think marrying me is going to fix this?”

“I think marrying me will give you space to rebuild,” he answered. “It’ll put you in the spotlight on your terms. Not as the mad ex-wife of Timothy Blackwood, or the fallen heiress, but as someone who still matters.”

My breath came slowly even as I absorbed his words. He didn’t say it unkindly, and that almost made it worse.

I looked past him to the window. The sky has turned coppery gray.

“Do you remember what our families did to each other?” I asked after a long pause. “Our fathers might be gone, but what about your mother? She would rather drown in her diamonds than see me anywhere near you.”

“Why does that matter?” he stated flatly, almost with an eyeroll.

“Yeah. It matters a whole lot. She is still alive,” I said as a matter of fact.

“And I’m not asking her to let me marry you.”

My throat was dry when I finally spoke. “I don’t know about this, Anderson. I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“I know,” he drew the words gingerly. “And I am not asking her. I am asking you.”

The food arrived before I could take my next breath.

My eyes tracked the waiter as he placed a sleek, white ceramic plate before me. The salmon glistened under a buttery lemon glaze, surrounded by roasted asparagus and herbed potatoes. He also set Anderson’s plate down across me.

“Bon appétit,” the waiter murmured with a short bow and vanished before I could even look up.

I didn’t touch my fork.

I kept my hands resting on the cloth napkin in my lap, breathing slowly. Anderson hadn’t moved either. The wine glasses between us stood like a mirror, reflecting a decision I hadn’t spoken aloud.

But it was there. If anything, it was already made.

What kind of woman says yes to a man she hasn’t seen in ten years?

A man with a mother who hates you. A legacy that mirrors your ruin. A man who remembers a version of you that no longer exists.

The kind of woman who no longer has the luxury of waiting. That one.

I could almost hear the voice in my head clearly and loudly. “You want to win? Then stop bleeding at the table. Pick up the pieces and build your knife. Dammit!”