Chapter 8- The fuck up

ALEXANDER

I set my fork down.

The metal clinks against the porcelain. The sound echoes in the too-quiet room.

"What's so important that we have to discuss it with an outsider?" I ask. My eyes find my mother. I hold her gaze. Cold. Hard.

My mother sets her own fork down. Laces her fingers on the table. "I've been talking with Natasha's family. We've decided it would be a good way to stay connected if you and Natasha got married."

I knock over my water glass.

Liquid spills across the white tablecloth. The servant rushes forward with a napkin. I ignore it. I'm staring at my mother.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I said—"

"It was rhetorical." My voice is sharp. Cutting. "I heard you. I'm not marrying her."

My mother's lips tighten. "Alexander, you have no say in this matter. You're too laid-back to take action on getting a wife. Your father and I aren't getting any younger. You need to succeed us. It's time."

I push my chair back. It scrapes against the floor. "Hasn't my decision from the countless blind dates taught you anything? You can't force me into a relationship I don't want."

"You're being difficult." My mother's voice is calm. Controlled. Like she's talking to a child. "Natasha is beautiful. She's intelligent. She comes from a good family. She knows our world. She'll be a perfect wife."

"I don't care if she's the Queen of England. I'm not marrying her."

Natasha stares at me. Her smile is still in place, but it's strained. "Isn't it better to marry someone you know? Rather than some random woman from a blind date?"

I turn to her. My eyes are ice.

"Shut up. You have no right to speak here."

She flinches. Her perfect composure cracks for a second. Then she recovers. Smiles again. It makes me want to vomit.

I face my parents. My hands are flat on the table. I'm leaning forward.

"I will not marry her. Not now. Not ever. You can threaten me. You can cut me off. You can take everything away. I don't care. I'm not marrying her."

My father's eyes narrow. "Watch your tone, Alexander. You forget who you're speaking to."

"I'm speaking to the people who are trying to control my life like I'm a puppet."

My mother's face is red. "Why? Why are you so against this? She's perfect for you."

I open my mouth. The words are ready. I'm about to say something I can't take back.

Then I feel it. The suffocation. The walls closing in. The weight of their expectations pressing down on my chest. I can't breathe. I can't think. I need out. I need to say anything to get out of this room.

"I have a girlfriend."

The words come out of nowhere.

Silence.

The room freezes. No one moves. No one speaks. The only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

Natasha laughs. It's brittle. Sharp. "You're lying."

I am lying. But they don't know that.

My mother leans forward. Her eyes are sharp. "What did you just say?"

My father is staring at me. Searching my face for a crack. For the lie.

I can't back down now. I'm already in too deep.

"I said I have a girlfriend. We're planning to get married."

My mother's hands unlace. She presses them flat on the table. "Oh? What family is she from? Why haven't you mentioned her before?"

"She's not from a family you'd know," I say. The lie is getting easier. "She's... she's someone I met recently. We've been seeing each other. It's serious."

My father snorts. "You're lying. You think we don't know you? You haven't brought anyone home. You haven't mentioned anyone. This is a pathetic attempt to get out of—"

"I'm bringing her over."

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Who the fuck am I going to bring over?

My mother's eyebrows shoot up. "You are?"

"Yes. I'll bring her to dinner. You can meet her. Then you'll see I'm serious."

My father's face is skeptical. "When?"

"Soon," I say. "I'll let you know when."

I push my chair back fully. Stand up. My heart is pounding. My hands are shaking. I don't show it. I keep my face stone.

"I have an important matter to take care of," I say. "I'll see myself out."

I don't wait for a response. I turn and walk toward the door. My footsteps echo on the marble. I feel their eyes on my back. Natasha's. My mother's. My father's.

I don't stop.

I walk out of the dining room. Down the hallway. Through the foyer. Out the front door. The cold air hits my face. I take a deep breath. Another. Another.

What the fuck was that? What did I just do?

I get in my car. The leather seat is cold. I start the engine. The Porsche roars to life. I pull out of the driveway. Past the gates. Onto the street.

I drive. I don't know where I'm going. My hands grip the steering wheel. My knuckles are white. My mind is racing.

I just told my parents I have a girlfriend. I just told them I'm getting married. To a woman who doesn't exist. Who the hell am I going to bring to that dinner?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out at a red light.

Dean.

"Got the intel on Mia Scofield. Meet me at your place. You're going to want to see this."

I type back.

"On my way."

I step on the gas. The city blurs past me. I need to get home. I need to find out everything about her.

I need to figure out how to fix the hole I just dug for myself.

I get home.

The drive was a blur. Streets passed. Lights blurred. I don't remember the turns. I don't remember the traffic. My mind was stuck on repeat, playing the dinner conversation over and over.

I park the Porsche in the underground garage. Take the elevator up to my floor. The doors open onto the penthouse. It's quiet. Cold. Empty.

The housekeeper appears. She's wearing her usual black dress, her gray hair pulled back in a neat bun.

"Master Alexander," she says. "Should I prepare your bath?"

"Not yet," I say. "Where's Dean?"

"He's in the cellar, sir. He arrived about thirty minutes ago."

I nod. Walk through the living room. Past the floor-to-ceiling windows. Down the spiral staircase to the cellar.

The cellar is climate-controlled. Rows and rows of wine bottles line the walls. Vintage Bordeaux. Rare Burgundies. A collection worth more than most people's homes.

Dean is sitting at the small table in the center of the room. He's holding a glass of Château Margaux 2000. He swirls it. Sniffs it. Takes a sip.

I walk over. Sink into the armchair across from him. The leather creaks under my weight.

Dean looks up. Grins. "This wine is very nice. Very nice. You have good taste."

"I know."

I run a hand over my face. Let out a long breath.

Dean's grin fades. He studies me. "You look like shit. What happened?"

"I fucked up."

His eyebrows shoot up. "Wow. That's a first. Alexander Morreti doesn't fuck up. He's always in control. Always calculating. Always—"

"Well, I fucked up today." I cut him off. "I fucked up badly."

He sets the wine down. Leans forward. His elbows rest on his knees.

"Okay. Explain. What exactly did you fuck up?"

I tell him everything.

The dinner. My mother's announcement. Natasha sitting there like she already owned the ring on her finger. The suffocation. The lie that came out of nowhere.

"I have a girlfriend," I say. "I told them I have a girlfriend. And that we're planning to get married."

Dean stares at me. Blinks. "You told your parents you have a girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"You told them you're getting married?"

"Yes."

"To a woman who doesn't exist?"

I nod. "Yes."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. Fuck."

We sit in silence. The only sound is the hum of the climate control system. Dean stares at the wine bottle. I stare at the floor.

Finally, Dean gets up. Walks to the table. Grabs a file that was sitting there. It's thick. Tabs sticking out. He hands it to me.

"This is the girl's file. Everything I could find. Read it. You're going to want to."

I take the file. Open it.

Her passport photo stares back at me. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Glasses. She's not smiling. She looks serious. Determined.

I read.

Name: Mia Scofield

Age: 21

Date of Birth: April 16th

Place of Birth: New York City

I flip the page. Her personal information. Family.

Parents: Deceased (car accident, she was twelve)

Grandmother: Gloria Harrison (currently in care facility, Westchester County)

Education: Graduated high school with honors. Accepted to Kingston Business School. Scholarship recipient.

Financial: Struggling. Works part-time at a bar. Grandmother's medical bills are significant.

I read it all. Her grades. Her employment history. Her living situation. Everything.

She's had a very difficult life.

I close the file. Set it on the arm of the chair.

Dean is watching me. "So," he says. "Who is she? Why did you ask for her file? This feels like indirect stalking."

"She's no one."

"She's someone. Someone you clearly care enough about to have me dig into her entire life." He crosses his arms. "Tell me."

I don't answer.

"Are you interested in her?" he asks.

"I'm not interested in anyone."

"But she's your student."

"Yes."

"So why are you interested in your student?"

"Drop it, Dean."

"This is frustrating." He throws his hands up. "You bring me here. You tell me about your fuck-up. You ask me to dig into a woman's life. And then you won't tell me why?"

I sigh. Rub the bridge of my nose.

"She was my one-night stand. From a month ago. The woman from the bar."

Dean's eyes go wide. "Fuck."

"Yeah. Fuck."

He sits back down. Stares at me. "And now she's your student. That's a crazy coincidence."

"I know." I look at him. "I'll avoid her. Keep my distance. She's not going to come between me and my work as a professor. I'll make sure of it."

Dean smirks. "Or..."

"What?"

"Or you could contact her. Offer her a deal. A paper relationship or something. She's struggling financially. You need a fake girlfriend to get your parents off your back. It's win-win."

I stare at him. "What are you talking about?"

He leans forward. "Think about it. You need to show your parents you're serious about this girlfriend. She needs money. You have money. You offer her a contract. A year. She plays the part. You pay her bills. Everyone wins."

"This is ridiculous."

"Is it?" Dean raises an eyebrow. "Where exactly are you going to find a candidate for your lie? You have no one. No one who would go along with this. No one who would be willing to pretend to be your girlfriend for a year. But she..." He gestures to the file. "She needs help. You can help her. It's a transaction. Clean. Simple."

I think about it.

He's right. I have no one. No woman in my life. No candidate. My parents will expect to meet this fictional girlfriend soon. They'll demand details. They'll ask questions I can't answer.

She needs money. I have money.

It's a solution, if you think about it.

And a bomb ticking at the same time.

Dean pulls out his phone. "I'll call my lawyer. Draft the contract. We'll make it ironclad. One year. Clear terms. No complications."

I don't stop him.

I don't say no.

I'm already thinking about her. About the way she looked at me in class. About the way she felt beneath me.

This is a terrible idea.

I'm going to do it anyway.