Forbidden French

The rain from Italy follows us back to Boston. In the two weeks since my return, the streets have been a sloshy mess. Rain clouds blot out the sun, and a deep chill has set in over the city. I largely exist as if my life hasn’t changed since my last night in Italy. With unwavering determination, I focus on work. There are no petulant tantrums or shows of defiance. In fact, I’m on my way to meet my father at the future site of GHV’s headquarters in Boston.

We’ve spoken multiple times since Italy and I can tell he’s waiting for an outburst from me, but he won’t get it.

My car pulls up to the curb outside the building. Just inside the lobby, through the rain-splattered windows, I can see my father waiting with his assistant. The plan for today is to take a few minutes to walk the building since he hasn’t had a chance to see it in person yet, and then we’ll meet with a lead architect and engineer from Banks and Barclay to understand the full scope of the project and the timeline we’re up against.

My driver whips my door open, a large black umbrella already in place above my head. I take it, thank him, and head toward the building.

Other than a few raindrops on my shoes, I’m bone-dry when I walk into the building and join my father and Wilson. They stand side by side while Wilson shows my father something on his phone.

He shakes his head, his focus still on whatever Wilson is showing him as he speaks. “We need to reschedule the meeting.” Then he looks up and asks me tersely, “Pourquoi es-tu en tardif?”

To which I reply, “Pluie.” Though I’m not late. I’m precisely on time.

I won’t give in to his needling. He wants a fight, but I get more satisfaction out of denying him the pleasure.

“Le bâtiment est assez ancien.”

I almost laugh and reply in French, “Historical architecture always is.”

“And have you gathered an estimate for what it will cost to renovate this?”

“You act as if you haven’t donated millions of euros to the restoration of Notre Dame. You of all people should appreciate this building for what it could be.”

“I’m more worried about it turning into a money pit. Alexander is supposed to be overseeing this project. Where is he?” He looks out onto the street expectantly.

“He won’t be here. I’ve taken over for him. I’d rather spearhead it myself.”

He nods but doesn’t say anything more.

“Should we walk the first floor? I’ve been told to avoid the elevators, but the stairs are just there. Once we finish down here, we can go up and look at the second story as well.”

Wilson immediately prepares himself to take notes, falling in step behind us.

As we walk and I point out features of the building to my father, he asks me about various work updates, starting with a dinner I attended last night then moving on to last month’s numbers from one of our jewelry brands. The topics stay neutral until he brings up the betrothal.

“I’ve been assured the engagement announcements will run tomorrow morning. Fay Davenport is pleased.”

“I don’t see the rush.”

After all, I won’t be going through with it.

“Heirs don’t grow on trees, Emmett.”

“Should I amuse you by confirming that I will not, under any circumstances, entertain this charade?”

“You will,” he says calmly.

“Or what? My position in the company? My trust? Gone?”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You act as if I’m putting you up against real hardship. I was there in Italy, remember? I saw the girl. She’s beautiful, agreeable, and more than you could ask for in a wife. Refined, intelligent, or so I hear, and she comes from good stock. She’s everything I had in mind for you.”

“Et comment devrais-je la baiser?”

And how should I fuck her?

He stops walking. “Excuse me?”

“You seem to have a hand in everything else, so tell me.”

“You’ll hold your tongue. I expect you to be grateful for what I’ve given you.”

“I won’t do it.”

“You will,” he says, spitting venom.

Then, my father’s phone rings, and Wilson clears his throat before performing the uncomfortable task of reminding us that the architects will arrive soon. Just like that, it’s business as usual once again. I’m sure my father falsely assumes I’m capitulating to his demands. I’m not.

The next morning, I wake up to a media firestorm as my father makes good on his promise to share news of the engagement. First the story breaks in the London Times and Le Figaro, then The New York Times. From there, it’s unstoppable. Every major outlet runs wild with the news.

It’s Pandora’s box.

My father’s team releases a congratulatory confirmation statement later in the morning.

Fay Davenport follows suit.

In terms of getting myself out of this debacle, there is no option I haven’t considered. If I go rogue and try to use a blog or independent media company to share my side of the story and refute the announcement, it will look like there is a break in rank at GHV. The board will hate it and the stockholders will see it as an act of rebellion. Stock prices will falter as a result. I’m not willing to go down that road. Public arguments do nothing but discredit our unity within the company and weaken our position in the global market.

This is a private matter, and we’ll handle it accordingly.

By lunch, flowers and gifts and congratulatory messages have flooded in. My suite at the Mandarin Oriental smells like a florist shop. The cloying scent is enough to make me sick.

“Take it all,” I tell the bellman I rang for. “If there’s anything you’d like for yourself, it’s yours. Donate the rest to Boston Children’s.”

“Right away, sir.”

I have no doubt Lainey is receiving all the same gifts and well wishes I am, only I imagine her grandmother is probably reading every note aloud with a look of sublime satisfaction on her face.

My stomach twists at the thought of Lainey. We haven’t seen each other or spoken since Italy, though neither one of us has reached out to try to remedy that. The more time I’ve had to consider the situation from all angles, the more my anger with her grows.

It’s hard to extricate her from the epicenter of this mess. She might not have specifically instigated the betrothal (though even that I can’t be certain of), but at the very least, she’s complicit in it, and I can’t look past that.

She more than anyone should understand what it feels like to be pressed beneath someone’s thumb. I’ve made it clear to her that I won’t marry despite my father’s demands. She knows how long I’ve battled to carve my own path in life. She could have spoken up and come to my defense. If she was unwilling to go through with the engagement, my father wouldn’t have forced her. She had the power to end it all right then and there.

Instead, here we are, two weeks since leaving Italy, betrothed in the eyes of the world, and tonight I’ll have to see her at the St. John’s Alumni Fundraiser in New York City. I doubt it will be pretty.