Joshua Wilkins: Arranged Marriage

The third time the Macallan hit the back of my throat, it didn’t burn as much as the first. Just as the glass hit the bar counter again, Max was there, filling it up and giving me a sympathetic smile. “Say that again,” Christian demanded. Christian Howard had made his first million within a year in the realty business and his first billion within five. Now, at thirty years old, he was one of the wealthiest men, listed at the top of the Fortune 500 list. “I have two weeks to get my s**t together before my grandfather finds me a wife.” I nuzzled my glass, looking at the familiar spicy brown color that I had developed a taste for at a young age. “Tell me,” Benjamin Kempball chimed in on the other side of me, “why in God’s name do you need a wife?” Benjamin Kempball had worked hard for his spot here. He came from nothing and made a fortune in investment banking, and he had both mine and Christian’s business. He was the best. “A man can’t run a business until he can run his home life,” I quoted my grandfather. “He won’t release the hold on Wilkins Co. until I have a wife and family. Therefore, he has taken it into his own hands and has apparently found a woman willing to tame me.” The last few words came out with a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. My grandfather had always been old school, but this was taking it too far. He had built his own empire; he did not rely on anyone else. But I had to get married to take over my birthright, which gave the Macallan a bitter taste. “That is ridiculous,” Christian said, looking down at his own drink. “You have perfect control of your home life because it is nonexistent.” “How tactful,” Benjamin grinned at our friend. Christian was married, just like the rest of us, to work. Work always came first. It was about gaining new contacts, gaining an upper hand, and leaving the office better than when you arrived. That also meant the time for socializing and dating was slim, and the only time a wife was really helpful was to handle the polite chatting at social gatherings. “But he has a point,” I said, looking towards Benjamin. “My work will falter if I get more responsibilities. I have enough on my plate without having to worry about a woman at home.” “Or you will stop being so uptight!” The heavy accent flowed between us all, but was directed at me as his hands landed on my shoulders. “Think of all the possibilities too.” Mathéo’s accent played through my head. “What possibilities?” Christian narrowed his eyes at Mathéo, the eternal romantic in him making Christian uncomfortable. “Having an outlet for all the pent-up s****l frustration, for example.” Mathéo worked differently from the rest of us. He worked because he had to, not because he wanted to. Mathéo Boucher was the newly appointed CEO of the Boucher Group, which meant he had control of all the best places to eat, drink, or dine, for that matter. I heard a chuckle coming from Benjamin, but as soon as it left his lips, they were sealed again. Benjamin’s story was sad, but it was the real story of climbing the social ladder in New York, and he had done beautifully at that. “I already have an outlet for that,” I said. To be honest, I had plenty of them. “I don’t need a wife.” “Your grandfather thinks so.” Mathéo set down his wine glass beside me before stepping a little to the right so I could see him. The bar, the Olympus, maintained our social standing and provided a venue for socializing. The members here all adhered to the same dress code: the most expensive suit known to man. It was clear which of us had made it the best, who came from new money or old money, who had the tact or played the game best. Benjamin was new money and did everything in his power not to show it. However, I was old money. My family had been at the top of the upper class for generations. In the late hours, most of us left our offices and made our way here. The soft classical music, the expensive drinks, and the elite membership allowed us to skip the chit-chat and get down to business. Multiple deals and downfalls had been made here, with both handshaking and backstabbing inevitable outcomes in the business world. I downed another drink before standing up again. “Let’s see about that.” After quick nods, I left the group and headed out into the early spring setting that was New York. My car came around quickly with Robert in it. I told him to take me to the family home. I wouldn’t let my grandfather dictate when and whom I would marry. I could find my own way, and when she—the woman of my dreams—came along, I would sweep her off her feet and marry her, but not a second sooner. --- The townhouse was three stories tall, housing both my grandparents on my father’s side and my parents when they were in town. The house had been passed down for generations, and it had been in my family for so long that everyone knew exactly where to find us. The grey brick walls reminded me of my childhood, of the many summers I spent running around and playing, but also the summers I spent in my grandfather’s study, sitting in meeting after meeting, listening to old men who were unwilling to evolve and unwilling to take chances. My time had come, and I was ready to redefine Wilkins Co. My finger barely touched the doorbell before the door opened. Tina was the maid and had worked for my grandparents for the last fifteen years. She was perfect for them: silent and efficient. Her brown hair, tinted with grey, was pulled back into a bun, while the black uniform with the apron did nothing for her body, which was aging rapidly. She still smiled warmly at me, welcoming me home. Home. It had been a long time since I thought of this place as home. It had been my workplace since I was thirteen, getting to know the investors, the board members, and how to run a tech company. While my grandfather thought it would make me more inclined to want the business, it did the opposite. When I turned twenty-one and got my trust fund, I quit my job at Wilkins Co. and started my own company. I made more and more products, systems, and software to sell, and my company bloomed. Today, Techins—I was twenty-one when I came up with that name—had grown just as big as Wilkins Co., which meant my grandfather couldn’t control me and only had some leverage because I didn’t want our company to fall into other hands. “Joshua!” My grandmother was nothing if not the perfect wife. She had been my second mother, raising me and making sure I behaved properly. She taught me etiquette, how to treat a young lady, and how to become a gentleman. “What a pleasant surprise.” Her beauty had not faltered at all; she was like wine, only getting more potent and stronger by the year. The wrinkles around her eyes, the grey sparks in her auburn hair, her small, delicate figure—it all stood the test of time. She did not look like a seventy-year-old and certainly didn’t act like one. “Grandmother,” I greeted her and kissed her on the cheek. “Is Grandfather in the study?” Her dark blue eyes squinted as if she could read my mind. “I will have no fighting in this house, do you hear me?” She warned with a pointed finger. “He is in his study,” she answered my question before she left me to find him. The study had not changed at all in the thirty years of my life. The dark mahogany desk was the main object in the room, its presence demanding and dominating. The bookshelves on the right side of the study were filled with books—books he never read but liked to own, just because he could. The sofa on the other side was right next to the cart with the most expensive whiskeys, rums, and gins you could find. My grandfather sat behind the desk in all his glory, leaned back in his brown leather chair, with one hand under his chin and the other slung across his armrest. His short, once-black hair was styled perfectly and the same way it had been for all my years. His grey eyes studied me, assessing me. The suit looked wrong on him but still looked more like his home—his habitat—than the house we were sitting in. “Do we need a drink for this, or will you leave soon again?” His deep, rumbling voice carried through the office. It had been the terror of my childhood, the comfort of my childhood, and the certainty of my childhood. It could be soothing or it could be malicious. “Rum or whisky?” I asked as I walked towards the cart. “Let’s do rum today,” he determined. “If I guess correctly, you have already had whisky today.” I took two glasses in one hand and started pouring with the other. When I was done, I went over to the desk and put the glass down in front of him. I had to exude power; it had to radiate from me, become my very core. All my grandfather responded to was power. He would not take too kindly if I went on my knees and begged. That was not the Wilkins way. “I am not getting married like this.” I did not ask. I did not yell. I simply stated the fact that it was not happening. “I see,” was all my grandfather replied as he gripped his glass, pulling it back with him into his chair. “Who’s the lucky girl?” He took a small sip while looking indifferently over the rim of the glass. I tried not to look dumbfounded. I tried to keep my cool. But his question threw me off. The lucky girl. Meaning, as if I should have found another girl, one I did want to marry. A deep sigh came from him, sounding like a mix between boredom and irritation. “If you aren’t marrying my prospect, I suppose you have found another. Who is she?” My jaw tightened. Of course. “I have no other prospect because I will not let you use the company as a bargaining chip to get me married.” The anger started to ooze from me. Instead of being calm and collected, I could feel myself slipping slowly but surely. “I will not get married until I see fit.” Yet another sigh passed his lips before he put down his glass with one hand and opened a drawer with the other. He fiddled with some papers before he took out a small folder. “You will get married, and you will do it soon because you signed the papers.” He threw the folder across the table so it landed right in front of me. “When you left the company to start Techins, you signed that you couldn’t rise to the role of CEO before you were married.” I looked at the papers, feeling a dreadful sensation creeping in on me. And right there, at the end of the paragraph stating how a fit CEO could take over the company: … must be married for at least three months to take over the company … Right there, black ink on white paper. Right there, my scribbled initials. F**k!