Ten
747 Words
Omarion
I do not take my gaze off the door Lisa just walked away from. The click of it closing pulls a weight into my chest, locking my breath in place.
My mail notification snaps me out of it. Investors in Singapore are waiting for a response about infrastructure expansion.
I sit at my desk. The screen blurs. My mind is on Lisa—on the way her breath hitched when I said I wanted her, the way she asked about Eliana, like I could hand her my worst day on a silver platter.
I drag my hands through my hair. Lisa does not understand what she’s asking.
It happened last Christmas. Eleven months, three weeks, and two days ago.
Margaret Sutton died of brutal cancer in six months. She was Eliana’s uncle’s wife and my mother’s best friend. Eliana went to the funeral, taking Zara because it was a family event. I could not make it. I was in London, shaking hands with investors, talking about market expansion. While she died, I worked.
Zara watched her mother fall from the terrace. She was five. I was not there.
By the time I got the call, Eliana was at the morgue. Zara had already stopped speaking.
The guilt presses on me daily. Some mornings, it is a dull ache; some days it steals my breath.
I should have been there. I should have seen the signs that something was coming. She had stopped sleeping well and eating properly. Her therapist said she was relapsing. She suffered from generalized anxiety disorder for most of her life after a disaster that claimed her parents’ lives. But for most of our marriage, she was fine
, even when both families kicked vehemently against me marrying her instead of her cousin.
I have not slept in the master bedroom since the funeral. Her books, her robe, her perfume—every trace of her too close to bear. I sleep in my study, at my desk, on the couch. Anything to avoid thinking.
Zara sees therapists. Yale-educated. Expensive. Minimal progress. Lisa makes her smile. She actually cares. And that terrifies me. Because she will dig. She will ask. She will see what I cannot face: I am not just grieving. I am a father who failed. A husband who wasn’t there. A man who lost everything that mattered.
My phone buzzes. Mother.
I consider ignoring it. But that only guarantees a visit. I answer.
“What.”
“Come on, honey, you don’t have to be harsh,” she says, soft as a lullaby. “Beatrice will arrive the day after tomorrow. Make arrangements.”
“Hell no.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Tell her not to come.”
“Omar, this has already been arranged. The Suttons are expecting—”
“I do not care. Beatrice is not spending Christmas here.”
"Omarion, you are being unreasonable."
"I am being clear." I stand, pacing behind my desk because if I sit still, I am going to put my fist through something. "I do not want her here. I do not want her around Zara.”
"You have obligations to this family. To the company. To the agreements your grandfather made. The Suttons and the Montgomerys have been allies for three generations. Your grandfather and Beatrice’s grandfather built this partnership—"
"Mother, I don't care.”
“You should. Montgomery Tech loses forty percent overnight if the Suttons pull support. The trust clause activates. If you’re not married by your thirtieth birthday, you lose control.”
Fifty-three days. That is all I have left.
“I will find another way,” I say.
“There is no other way. Marry Beatrice. Secure everything. Or refuse, and watch your daughter grow up in poverty while the empire crumbles. You will be civil. And you will start considering the future instead of mourning the past. Beatrice is coming. That is final.”
She hangs up.
Beatrice was meant to be mine from childhood. Arranged. Perfect alliance. Until Eliana.
I chose her instead. My mother never forgave me. She said Eliana was not strong enough for this world.
Turns out she was right.
I failed her.
Now, her cousin is the only option.
I tried to fight it, talking to lawyers, exploring ways to dissolve the partnership without destroying everything.
There are not any.
The Suttons own too much. If they walk, we collapse.
Marry or lose everything. Some choice.
- Writer
