“He’s my husband.”
Your second husband.
What kind of woman marries her dead husband’s brother? It’s twisted.
But I get it. My mother is looking to the future. I’m her only child. Marrying my uncle, when she did, ensured no other children would be born into the Rossi family.
I am the future of the Rossi family.
As for He’s my husband, yet again, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole. Or rather, I shouldn’t.
I know going in that it’s a mistake, but I can’t help myself.
“Well, I’m killing it, and I don’t need a man to tell me what to think, what to do, or how to do it. I have a backbone, and I’m not stuck in the past when it comes to outdated, sexist thinking. Our last two quarterly reports are nothing short of spectacular.”
I press my finger on the table, emphasizing my point. Not that it does any good, judging by her indignant snort.
Since when is it ladylike to snort?
“That’s my doing.” I can’t help wanting my mother’s praise. It’s instinctual for a child to seek a parent’s approval. “Those are my business decisions, and my strategic plan, implementing the changes the Belvedere needs to move into the next century.”
“Your father made a mistake.” Mother picks at nonexistent lint on the white linen tablecloth.
“Excuse me?”
“He spoiled you. Put ideas in your head. He wanted a son but got a girl. He overcompensated. I tried to tell him no man wants to marry a woman who competes with him at work, but he didn’t listen. He filled your mind with this drivel. A man wants a wife who supports him. Not a woman who opposes him and fights him on every little thing. You’re making my job harder than it should be.”
“Your job?”
“Finding an appropriate match for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes, darling. A husband.”
“Need I mention, again, that it’s not the 1950s? Those kinds of outdated ideas are gone for a reason. I don’t need you to find me a husband.”
“A woman of your social stature needs to be extremely selective when choosing a husband. I have several candidates in mind. We can talk about them next time you come to brunch.”
“I’m not discussing this further. I’m not getting married to some cretin you think will make a good match for the Rossi’s. When I marry, if I marry, it’ll be for love.”
“You’re being difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult. Money, and social status, are not the end all and be all of happiness. Who I marry is my choice. Not yours.”
“Who you marry affects the Rossi’s. Love is an illusion. You’ll marry an appropriate match for both you and the Rossi’s.” Her perfectly upturned nose fits her prejudices like a glove. “We need to be selective and careful who we allow into this family.”
“Well, thanks, but no thanks, for the matchmaking help. I don’t believe in great families merging resources by forcing eligible bachelors and bachelorettes into loveless and lifelong unions of despair and regret.”
“Your job is to further the family’s interests. You’ll marry an appropriate match. Someone I approve. That’s the end of it.”
“Is that what you did? Did you marry Father to further family interests?”
“I did what was expected of me.”
“Were you ever in love?”
The strangest expression comes over her face: intense anger mixed with something even more frightening, deep-seated hatred.
Too afraid to say anything, silence stretches between us. Is it possible she hated my father? If so, why marry him in the first place?
Mother takes her napkin off her lap and folds it into a neat square. That’s the signal our luncheon is at an end.
“I know getting a degree was important to you. I know running your father’s company is important too, but this is not the life he meant for his daughter. You’ve had your fun. You’ve honored his memory, but this nonsense needs to end.”
“Excuse me?”
“Marco and I have been patient, but it’s time to make a few changes. If you’re not going to look out for your future, I will.”
Resentment rampages through me as I bite my tongue trying not to snap at my mother.
“You can’t force this on me.”
“I can and I have. It’s time to fulfill your obligations to the family.”
My eyes sting with the threat of tears. I’m a strong, independent woman, but that doesn’t mean I don’t crave the love of my mother.
“But my job …”
“Rossi women don’t have jobs. It’s beneath us. The decision’s already been made. Don’t act like a child. This isn’t an argument you can win.” With that, my mother departs.
There’s no goodbye. No hugs filled with air and very little tenderness. There’s no kiss on my cheek that shows me I’m loved.
I emerge from lunch emotionally scarred. It’s a wonder I’m not bruised and bleeding.
It hurts.
It always does. I rub my breastbone, trying to erase the fresh wounds inflicted by my mother and fight to breathe against the constriction in my chest.
But I will not cry.
Not where others can see.
My mother turns innocuous comments into the most vicious weapons ever wielded. There’s no way I’ll live up to the unobtainable standards she puts in place.
I watch her depart, tears pricking at my eyes, and clutch my phone. I’ve kept it on silent the entire time, honoring my mother’s wishes about intrusive texts during a meal.
Hopefully, Sybil’s having a much better time than me. I look forward to reading her texts. She can be obnoxious about it, especially when she knows such texts annoy my mother.
I expect to see well over sixty texts from Sybil, one for each minute I endured. To my surprise, there are none.
I leave a tip equal to the cost of our meal, then fire off an email to the waiter’s manager, singing his praises when dealing with difficult customers. Then, I fire off a string of texts to Sybil and anxiously wait for a reply.
I get nothing.
I send another handful of texts, detailing my mother’s plans to saddle me with a husband I hate in a marriage I loathe. It’s sure to get a response.
Nothing.
That’s odd.
I head up to my office on the twenty-second floor. My personal suite of rooms, my apartment, aka prison, is easiest to access through the private staircase in my office. If I take the elevator to the twenty-third floor, I have to weave my way through our extensive security suite.
Somehow, making that commute is distasteful. I don’t like that they all know I live in an overly spacious apartment occupying nearly a quarter of the twenty-third floor.
Of course, it’s nothing like the twenty-fifth floor. That floor belongs to my uncle; all of it. Not to live in. He uses the floor to run his businesses. The Rossi family is involved in a lot of businesses.
By the time I make it upstairs, there’s still nothing from Sybil. My insides churn. Sybil and I have been inseparable since the summer we met.
If we aren’t with each other, we text nonstop. We text all day long. I’m talking scores and scores of texts. That doesn’t count the many phone calls.