Page 21

MARISELA

H is fork tapped against his dinner plate, and I watched as he shoved another piece of meat into his mouth. The juices splashing over his lips and dripping onto his chin before he used his free hand to grab the cloth napkin and dab at his cheek.

My eyes honed in on the sunken, sagging skin covered in little spots that spoke to too many hours spent on the golf course and swollen, shaky knuckles that told me he couldn’t properly clutch a club anymore. Hinting at the fact he probably did more drinking than anything else when he was there.

Then there was the way his jaw clenched as he chewed, the little hairs on his face sticking out like an electrified porcupine. It was nauseating. His teeth more yellow than white while his bushy eyebrows looked like two fat hairy caterpillars were ready to crawl off his face at any moment.

I was an observer. It was second nature. A survival instinct I’d developed at a young age when being seen and not heard wasn’t just a suggestion. It was an expectation. So I lived in my head, spent so much time there I hardly realized anyone else was around. Until they caught me staring.

Like right now. Our dinner guest cleared his throat, and I smiled and quickly returned my attention to the bland chunk of steak in front of me. I never understood the correlation between tasteless food and rich people. As if they had an aversion to every seasoning other than salt and pepper.

My father was one of those people now. Which meant I was forced to adopt the palate of someone who looked like they belonged in a nursing home, rather than sitting across from a girl who was a quarter of his age for god only knows what reason.

The same man who was currently gawking at me like he wished it was me he was gnawing on instead.

I might have looked away but he sure as hell didn’t. Nor did he seem to care who noticed.

He dropped his fork onto the table with a clank, his focus locked on me and my father’s focus locked on him. Assessing the stranger assessing me. “So, Mary , tell me,” the man sneered. “How are your studies going?”

“My daughter is at the top—” my father started to answer for me, only to be cut off by a wave of that same trembling, condescending hand.

“I didn’t ask you, Henry. I asked her .” The man’s penetrating glare flicked across the table before landing on me again. And I had to stifle my laughter. For two reasons.

My father hated being called Henry. More than that, though, he hated to be talked over and corrected. This stranger had done both.

I straightened my spine, meeting the wrinkly old bastard at eye level even as he tried to puff out his chest and rise higher in his seat.

“Besides the incompetence of my classmates, they are going just fine.” I lifted a shoulder into a half shrug.

“Then again, it isn’t difficult to maintain your marks when everyone else is below the curve.

So maybe I should be grateful they’ve made things so easy for me. ”

I could feel the heat of my father’s wrath boring into the side of my head. I didn’t bother acknowledging it as I awaited the shitstorm I could feel headed my way.

The man’s lip curled into a snarl, his nostrils flaring and the veins in his neck pulsing in a way that suggested if an aneurism didn’t get him, a heart attack might.

Then he slapped a heavy palm on the table and bellowed out a laugh.

The sound so unsettling and manic I jumped in my chair before I could stop myself.

“She’s perfect.” He continued chuckling as he set his napkin on his plate and shoved it aside.

“Tate never did like the quiet ones. No, the boy needs a challenge. Someone who will…” The man paused, as if considering his words for a moment.

“…keep things interesting. In the bedroom. If you know what I mean.” He turned and cocked an eyebrow at my father, who was still shooting daggers at me.

“Of course. If only we could all be so lucky,” my father grunted, his leg dancing under the table as he tried to calm his tone enough to address me without yelling.

I could feel the subtle knocking three chairs down.

“Mari, this is Mr. Prescott. He wanted to meet you in person before we discussed the details of your betrothal to his son.”

I forced down the bile quickly rising in my throat and plastered on another smile.

Why? Because all my sass seemed to get me was a wedding band weighing down my finger.

And I didn’t even want to consider what other things my future husband liked in the bedroom .

Though I was pretty certain consent wasn’t one of them.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Prescott,” I croaked out.

“Please, call me Tate .” He grinned. And there was that look again.

The one that stressed his choice of daughter-in-law was as much for him as it was for his boy .

Who, judging by the age of the man in front of me, wasn’t much of a boy at all but closer to a creep in his thirties.

“Unless you find it uncomfortable, dear. I can only imagine what it must feel like to yell out for the son and have the father come running.”

I didn’t reply, offering another tight smile instead as I excused myself from the dining table and rushed back up the stairs to my room.

I knew this day was coming. I’d been prepared for it long before I had any concept of what getting engaged to a stranger meant.

But that didn’t make the realization any easier to digest than that piece of flavorless meat my father had just tried to force me to swallow.

It didn’t make me any more willing to choke it down either.