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I don’t remember the way back home.
I remember sitting in the car outside my apartment, hearing his voice over and over again. That kind of person.
“I need security,” I murmured.
“Go away, Layla.”
***
Three weeks later, I married Violet’s grandfather. The wedding was small, private, and expensive enough to make my skin itch. The flowers probably cost more than my rent.
I stood next to Rick and kept my shoulders straight.
We were fifty years apart in age, and it wasn’t because of love.
From the second row, Violet was looking at the program she had in her lap. She never looked at me.
Nobody came to keep me company. There was no one left to invite.
We were fifty years apart in age.
At the reception, I was raising a glass of champagne when a woman dressed in pale blue walked past me. It was Angela, one of Rick’s daughters. She touched my elbow with two fingers and smiled coldly.
“You moved very quickly,” he said. “My father has always liked rescuing stray dogs.”
I took a sip of champagne. “Then I hope this family is well-behaved at home.”
She seemed surprised. “Excuse me?”
Rick appeared beside me before I could answer. “Angela, if you can’t handle decency for one night, please shut up.”
“Sorry?”.
Her face tightened. “I was just welcoming him.”
“No,” he said. “You were auditioning to disappoint me. As always.”
She let out a sigh through her nose and left.
We drove to the farm at dusk. I barely spoke. Rick didn’t press the issue.
***
In the bedroom, I looked at myself in the mirror wearing that dress. I didn’t look pretty. I looked made up, expensive… and temporary.
The door opened behind me.
“I was just welcoming him.”
Rick came in, closed the door gently, and the room fell silent. Then he said, “Layla, now that you’re my wife… I can finally tell you the truth. It’s too late for you to back out.”
My hands got cold.
“Rick, what does that mean?”
She looked at me. “It means you were wrong to know why I asked you to do it.”
I turned to face him. “Then tell me.”
“It’s too late for you to back down.”
He didn’t come any closer. “I’m dying, Layla.”
“That?”.
“My heart,” he said. “Maybe months. A year, if the Lord is feeling theatrical.”
I grabbed the back of a chair. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because,” he said quietly, “my family has spent years surrounding my death like shoppers at a store door. Last spring, my own son tried to have me declared mentally disabled.”
“I’m dying, Layla.”
I stared at him. “Your own son?”
“Yes. David.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything.” Rick nodded toward the folder on the nightstand. “Open it.”
I opened it.
Inside were transfers, legal drafts, and notes in his own handwriting.
“Your own son?”
There were promised donations that were never sent. Employees quietly laid off. And Violet’s mother’s hospital bills covered by Rick while Angela and David took the credit. Then I got to the succession plan.
My mouth went dry. “Rick…”
“When I die,” he said, “part of the company and the charitable foundation will pass to you.”
I dropped the folder on the bed. “No.”
“Yes, Layla. It’s the only way.”
“No. Your family already thinks I’m a gold digger, Rick. Imagine when they find out.”
Then I came to the succession plan.
“They thought that before you put on the ring.”
“They will destroy me.”
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