The Spare Son

The shouting woke me at dawn.

I'd barely slept. Spent most of the night staring at that marriage contract, at my photo paper-clipped where it didn't belong. When I finally passed out around four AM, my dreams were full of men in suits dragging me down endless hallways.

Now my father's voice was shaking the house again.

"Where is he? Where the hell is he?"

I pulled on my robe over paint-stained pajamas and stumbled into the hallway. My mother was already outside Marcus's room, one hand pressed to her mouth.

The door was open. I could see inside.

Empty drawers hanging out of the dresser. Closet doors flung wide, hangers scattered on the floor. The bed was a mess, sheets tangled, pillow on the ground.

On the pillow was a piece of paper.

My father snatched it up, read it, and his face went purple.

"That ungrateful little..." He crumpled the note in his fist.

"James, please." My mother's voice was barely a whisper. "Maybe we can talk to him. Reason with him."

"Reason? He's gone!" My father threw the crumpled paper at the wall. "Run off like a coward."

I bent down and picked up the note. Smoothed it out.

*I won't be his whore. Find another solution. -M*

My stomach dropped.

"Felix." My father's voice cut through my thoughts. "Study. Now."

I followed them downstairs, my bare feet cold on the marble. My mother kept glancing back at me, her eyes red and glassy.

The study smelled like old leather and my father's cologne. Too strong. Made my head hurt.

"Sit," he said.

I sat in one of the chairs across from his desk. My mother stood by the window, arms wrapped around herself.

My father paced. Back and forth. Back and forth. The sound of his shoes on the hardwood like a countdown.

"Fifty million dollars," he said. "Due in three weeks. If we don't pay, we lose everything. The house. The cars. The art collection. The family name. Everything your grandfather built."

I'd heard this yesterday. But hearing it again, watching my father's face twist with rage and desperation, made it real in a way it hadn't been before.

"Marcus was supposed to fix this. The marriage contract. The merger with Cross Empire. The patents would have saved us." He stopped pacing and looked at me. Really looked at me.

I didn't like that look.

"You're almost identical," he said quietly. "Same height. Similar build. Same coloring."

My mouth went dry.

"No," I said. "Whatever you're thinking, no."

"James, please." My mother moved away from the window. "Felix has his scholarship. His future. You can't ask him to..."

"What future?" My father's voice exploded again. "There is no future if we lose everything! Do you understand that, Claire? We'll be on the street. Bankrupt. Disgraced."

"Then we'll be on the street!" My mother's voice cracked. "But we won't sacrifice our son."

"We already sacrificed one son. What's one more?"

The words hit me like a slap.

My father turned back to me. "You leave for Paris in three months. That scholarship? I can make one phone call and it disappears. You'll never paint again. No school will touch you. I'll make sure of it."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

We stared at each other. I'd never stood up to my father before. Never had a reason to. I was the spare. The invisible one. The one who stayed quiet and out of the way.

But this was my life. My dream.

"I can't," I said. "I'm not Marcus. People know Marcus. They'll know I'm not him."

"You'll learn. We'll train you. You have six days."

"Six days?" My voice came out too high. "The wedding is in six days?"

"Cross wants this done quickly. The contracts are already signed."

My phone buzzed in my robe pocket. I pulled it out. A call from a number I didn't recognize.

"Answer it," my father said.

I did. Put it on speaker.

"Mr. Laurent?" A woman's voice. Crying. "This is Isabelle. Marcus's... I need to talk to Marcus."

My father's jaw clenched. "This is James Laurent. Where is my son?"

"We're in Montreal." More crying. "We got married last night. He said he couldn't go through with the other wedding. He said you'd understand."

The phone slipped in my hand. I almost dropped it.

"Married?" my father said. His voice was deadly quiet. "You married my son?"

"I love him. We love each other. He's not coming back. He wanted me to tell you that."

My father ended the call. Threw my phone across the room. It hit the wall and clattered to the floor.

The silence was worse than the shouting.

I looked at my mother. She was crying now, silent tears running down her face.

I looked at the portrait on the wall behind my father's desk. My grandmother. She'd died when I was twelve. She was the one who taught me to paint. Who told me I had talent. Who made me promise I'd never give up on my art.

"You have 24 hours," my father said. "Save this family, or you're dead to me. And I'll make sure no art school in the world touches you. You'll spend the rest of your life working retail. Waiting tables. Wasting your talent because you were too selfish to help your family."

My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my knees to make them stop.

"What do I have to do?" My voice came out barely above a whisper.

My father pulled open a drawer and took out a thick document. Slid it across the desk.

"First, you become Marcus. Legally, socially, completely. We'll change your identification, your records. As far as the world is concerned, you are Marcus Laurent."

"That's fraud."

"That's survival." He opened the document to a page marked with a sticky note. "You'll study everything about Marcus. His mannerisms, his speech patterns, his history. You'll cut your hair. Dye it darker. Learn to walk differently."

I stared at the document. At the photo of Marcus clipped to the first page.

"The marriage is in six days," my father said. "Six days to become someone else. Can you do it?"

I thought about Paris. About the École des Beaux-Arts. About standing in front of the Louvre for the first time. About everything I'd ever wanted.

Then I thought about losing it all.

My mother was still crying. Quiet. Broken.

I looked up at my father. "What happens after three years? The contract says automatic dissolution."

"After three years, you're free. You get a divorce, take your settlement money, and live whatever life you want." He leaned forward. "Three years, Felix. That's all I'm asking. Three years of your life to save this family."

Three years.

Everything I was. Everything I wanted to be.

Gone.

I reached out and pulled the document toward me.

"The wedding is in six days?" I asked again.

My father nodded.

I took a breath. Let it out slowly.

"Then we better get started."