FOR.BIDDEN LOVERS

Chapter 2: The Ultimatum

Richard

"Mom, Mom," I yell as I walk through the door of my parent's mansion. Margaret, my childhood maid, greets me.

"Your mother is in the kitchen." Margaret extends her arms towards me and squeezes me tightly. "It's so good to see you, Richie." Since I was a child, Margaret has worked for my parents, and Richie is the nickname she gave me.

"What's my mother doing in the kitchen?" I take the duster out of her hand and help her dust the paintings on the wall.

"She's cooking. She didn't call you and let you know she was going to be cooking for you this morning?" Margaret snatches the duster out of my hand and slaps me on the butt with it. She laughs and shakes her head as I walk toward the kitchen.

My mother doesn't spend much time in the kitchen. When she is in there she's usually browsing through a catalog of countertops and looking to upgrade the appliances. If my mother is cooking breakfast that's not a good sign for me. My mother only cooks pancakes for me when she has some bad news or if she and my father want to scold me on how irresponsible I am with my time, money, and ultimately, my life.

"Ah, sweetie, you're here. Come have a seat." She puts a plate of blueberry pancakes on the dining table and pours me a glass of orange juice.

"What's wrong, mom? What did I do now?" I twirl my fork through my fingers and stare out the bay window overlooking the beach, trying not to appear anxious.

"Oh, nothing, sweetie, we just want to talk to you about some things." She sits down at the table and caresses my hand. I smile and cut a small slice of blueberry pancake as my father enters the kitchen. He's carrying his giant black financial ledger with him, which is a sign that I'm in for a long lecture.

"Hey, dad." I smile and shove a slice of my mother's homemade pancakes in my mouth.

My father glances at me and grunts while my mom looks down at the table. "You want some pancakes, Henry?" She asks.

My father takes a deep breath and taps his pen on the table. "Yeah, one or two is fine," he replies.

I take a sip of my orange juice and take a deep breath. My mother stands up and starts to fix my father a plate. She purposely takes her time as she knows what's coming and is as uncomfortable as I am.

My father pulls his glasses down towards the tip of his nose and strokes his grey beard. "Richard, today, I'm just going to get straight to the point." He opens his black financial ledger and starts skimming through the documents. "I've tried to give you multiple chances to show and prove that you're ready to grow up, be a man and make responsible decisions." He pauses briefly, waving his hand towards my mother to hurry up and bring him his pancakes.

I'm not too fond of the way my father treats my mother. He treats her as if she's his servant and has done so since my childhood. It's part of the reason why I've never agreed with a woman staying home and raising kids. I've always felt a woman should be self-sufficient due to watching how my father treats my mom. There's something about an independent woman who still knows how to be soft and gentle that turns me on.

My mother walks towards my father and sits his pancakes in front of him. She sits down and squeezes my hand, gently stroking her thumb over my knuckles. "Richard, we think that-

"Betty, please." My father interrupts her and points his fork towards me.

"I'm sick of you talking to her like that," I point my fork back at my father.

“Boy, don't tell me what to do in my house." My father slams his fist on the table and stands up.

My mother grabs both of our hands and pleads with us to calm down. I take a deep breath and stare out the bay window. My father slowly sits back in his seat.

"I don't know why you have to start these conversations with such negativity, dad."

My father leans back in his chair and runs his fingers through his hair, scratching the bald patch at the top of his head. "Richard, being a billionaire and managing multiple businesses, is not all fun and games. Understanding what it requires to build and maintain generational wealth requires diligence, persistence, and responsibility, and I've not seen you exhibit those traits. You're thirty years old, and you've yet to find a wife."

My mother puts her head down. "Richard, we want to help you." She grabs my hand and smiles at me.

"You're not going to like this, but we have decided to give you an ultimatum." My father grabs his fork and stuffs a slice of pancake in his mouth.

"Ultimatum," I reply in shock.

"We came across an arranged marriage club for billionaires, and we are going to help you find a wife." My father replied.

"You're not serious," I laugh.

"Oh! Indeed we are," yelled my father.

"And what makes you think I would agree to something so stupid?" I drop my fork on the plate and scoot my chair away from the table. My mother looks down at the table again.

"Because, if you don't, I'll write you out of the will. I will not let you destroy everything I have worked my butt off to build for us and for you to live the lavish lifestyle you so freely live today."

I pause and stare at both my parents in disbelief. A tear drops from my mother's face. "Please understand, we only want the best for you and to make sure there is something to pass along to the next generation." My mother tries to stroke my cheek, but I push my chair away from her.

"Wow! So this is how little you think of me. You don't trust me to make sure I can manage our assets. Well, you're crazy if you think I'm going to spend the rest of my life married to some Barbie doll bimbo, whose only job is to keep tabs on me like I'm some child because you two don't trust me." I push my plate away and storm to the front door.

I run down the steps, and thankfully, the chauffeur has my Benz ready. I can hear my dad running after me, yelling, "You have one month to come to your senses, and after that, you're out of the will."