Joshua Wilkins: Arranged Marriage

Chapter 2: Lydia

My phone rang once again. Angela showed up at my door, with her jet-black hair cut in a bob that was hard not to notice. “It’s Sebastian Phillip.”

A groan, bigger than Mount Everest, escaped my lips. Sebastian Phillip was an up-and-coming author who usually wrote incredible stuff, but the latest sample chapters were unreadable.

I picked up the phone and plastered a smile on my face; it had to have the full effect. “Sebastian! Darling! How are you doing?” Soon, he started rambling on and on about his life, which held no significance to me, but as his publisher, I tried to engage. He had made the firm a lot of money and landed me the position as head of the New York department. I had worked ferociously on the deal and landed him when nobody else could. “Honey,” I interrupted him mid-sentence, “I read your latest chapters—”

“Aren’t they amazing?” He sounded so overjoyed it broke my heart to break his.

“I have some notes,” I said, trying to smile through the phone, but I could hear his demeanor change, becoming the irritated author I hated to work with. “Why don’t we meet up tomorrow for lunch?” I tried to be nice, and force-feeding him Italian food always made him more chipper. “Carmine’s?”

I quickly scheduled the meeting and put it in my calendar before I could cut him off and didn’t have to deal with it until tomorrow at lunch. Sebastian would be the end of me. He was a great deal three years ago, and he put out a lot of thrillers that made perfect sense, but this new catastrophe was anything but good.

My computer even let out a sigh as I turned it off. It had been running at full speed since 7 AM. With a glance at the clock telling me it had been working for thirteen hours, I knew it was time to let it rest.

I picked up my bag, which had my laptop, three manuscripts, and a family-sized package of orange Tic Tacs. My heels clicked on the wooden floor as I made my way out of my office. Wearing a long-sleeved dress made it unnecessary to wear a coat. The black fabric clung to me as I moved.

“Angela,” I called out, still with my face smooshed to my phone.

“Yes, boss?” Angela had been my assistant forever. She was incredibly skilled at her job, and I actually loved having her as an employee.

“I need a reservation for two at Carmine’s tomorrow for lunch,” I said, quickly looking up at her, but all she did was type away on her computer while she listened. “I also want a meeting with Derek after. Someone needs to pay more attention to what our writers do when they are not in the spotlight.”

“Done deal, boss,” she replied, working away, which was her best quality. “Anything else?”

I locked my phone before plunging it into my bag. “No, not for today,” I smiled at her. “Go have fun.”

“You haven’t forgotten, right?” I had just turned away when she asked that question, a question I dreaded more than anything. Birthday? Anniversary? Birth? Death? Deal?

A strangled smile came to my lips. “Of course not, Angela! Happy—”

“Your father,” she interrupted me with a grin, “he’s waiting at Olympus for you.”

My father. A shiver went down my spine. “I knew that,” I scoffed as her grin widened. “Of course, it’s my father waiting for me.” I turned fully before walking away from the smug look on her face.

“My birthday is next month! Don’t worry, I typed it into your calendar!” Her tone of voice made me smile, the way she knew me. I loved my job. I loved the staff. The way of work. I loved every piece of it.

**

Walking into Olympus would forever be my favorite place to be. It was euphoric at best. It was a men’s only club, but a woman like me belonged there, and they knew it just as well as I did.

My father had finally caved and allowed me in. We always met here. When I landed the deal, he couldn’t deny me; he knew I was a top player and needed to be among the other top players. If it had not been for the gender roles in our world and the fact that my brother was born first, I would be the perfect candidate to take over Conner Books. I put in the hours and got the job done.

I walked into the big open space that was the bar area. The golden counter and stools made way for the décor, making everything else look tacky if it wasn’t gold. It felt like walking into Olympus and meeting Zeus, though the slimy men here did not represent the god well.

Quickly, I spotted my father, sitting in his customary suit. It was a dark green color, the same color that embedded the logo at Conner Books. He looked right at me, his jaw set, and the strong and powerful brown of his eyes lured me toward the table. With a small gesture, I acknowledged him before heading to the bar.

That look required a drink. No matter what he wanted to see me about, it was something important and something dire, which made liquor necessary.

“Max!” I smiled as the bartender came over to me.

“Miss Conner,” he greeted, before slinging his towel over his shoulder. He rested his hands on the top of the bar, looking godly, handsome, and sexy. His brown eyes were thick with feeling, and his hair was tousled in a careful way. “What can I get for you?”

A smirk trailed my lips, knowing damn well what he could get for me. “A gin and tonic with just a splash of orange.”

“Very well.” He tried to keep his face stern, but I could see right through him. I could see everything in his face. All of the emotions. The way he looked when he kissed me, the intensity in his eyes when he went down on me, and the way his mouth opened when he came. Perfect. Utterly perfect.

Max quickly made the drink and popped in my regular slice of orange, which made the drink taste perfect—not sour, not sweet, just perfect. “Thank you,” I smiled at him, trying not to be too obvious. “Just put it on my father’s tab.”

A glint of mischief crossed his brown eyes before he headed over to another customer. With my drink in hand, I went to the table, hopefully not awakening my father’s fierce temper.

“Father,” I greeted as I sat down.

“Daughter.” His reply was cordial at best, but that was the love I’d get out of him. “I hear you’re working with Sebastian Phillip again.”

“Yes,” I nuzzled my drink while staring into my father’s eyes, “he has new chapters for us, but they need revising. I am not sure if they will be published.”

I knew my father’s favorite language, which was honesty. I gained nothing from keeping it from him, and it couldn’t get me out of failure, but my decision to make it succeed was still my goal.

“Why not?” He adjusted his tie before grabbing his Macallan neat, the preferred drink among gentlemen. Or, as I liked to call them, snobs.

My father was a firm man, a man set in his own beliefs and his own agenda. He knew what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted it. He would stop at nothing to get things the way he saw fit.

“He has changed his writing style,” I took a sip of the drink. “No more thrillers and murders. Now he wants to be the next J. K. Rowling.” He had tried, but failed terribly.

“Then make him write another thriller,” my father countered, almost indifferent to my saying.

“I’m planning on doing so,” I said. “We’re meeting tomorrow.”

He nodded at me, recognizing my efforts but not complimenting me on them. That was reserved for the heir of Conner Books, my brother. The brother who hasn’t been back from his honeymoon in two months. The brother who didn’t land as big a deal as I did. The brother who didn’t take the job seriously. He had found love, and that was more than enough for him.

So while he was snoozing in the Caribbean, I was here, working my ass off for the firm I would never run. The silence between us begged for it. It begged for me to open my mouth once more and reason with my father again.

“Don’t,” he commanded, almost like he had read my mind. “I will not have that discussion with you in public.” The tone of his voice was menacing and sent shivers down my spine.

“You know I’m right.” I couldn’t help it; I had to just dab a little.

He sighed before pushing up his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. We’d had this discussion so many times it almost seemed irrational to keep it up. “I can’t keep having this discussion, Lydia.”

“There is one way to end it.” Another sip. I was walking on a thin line—the thin line that represented hope, only because it still existed, only because my father hadn’t inexplicably said no yet.

My father cleared his throat, letting go of his nose and putting the glasses back in place. The clearing only meant one thing: that was the end of this discussion and I needed to change the subject.

“Your mother is throwing a dinner party,” his eyebrows furrowed; he hated the dinner parties just as much as I did. “It’s next Saturday, and you are to come.”

“Formal attire?” He nodded. I hated the formal dinner parties. It made no sense to invite over the people we saw every day and give up a Saturday just to see them again. “I’ll be there at seven.”

“Six thirty,” my father corrected and must have seen the confusion on my face, he added: “We need to talk beforehand. It’s important people, and I want you to know how to act.”

This time I nodded. We always did that when it was an important business associate so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself in front of them by not remembering their names or status.

“Very well.” He nodded at me again before getting up and leaving the table. And just like that, I had survived another meeting with the powerful and cruel Brian Conner.