Wicked Snow

An Indecent Proposal

My mom would have hated her funeral. It was filled with businessmen and their trophy wives, and only a few people who had genuinely cared for her. There was a distinct separation between the two groups, with the exceptionally dressed and stoic upper-class standing behind my father, while the tear-stained charity workers and middle-aged mothers stood with me. I felt far more comfortable surrounded by their soft sobs and sincere emotions than I would have felt standing next to my cold and detached father.

It was a closed casket because, as my father had so bluntly pointed out in the car, the accident had left her with cuts all over her face and arms. I wasn’t even sure which one I would have hated more– not being able to see her face one last time or having to see her lifeless and still body before she was buried. Both options were equally terrible.

The priest was delivering the sermon, but I didn’t listen to a word he was saying. My mother stopped believing in God a long time ago– probably around the same time my father started beating her– so I don’t know how she would have felt about having a priest carry out her funeral. Of course, my father didn’t care about what she may have wanted because he was too focused on making the funeral something that his associates would approve of.

I pushed my bitterness at his inconsideration aside, because it wasn’t the time for anger. Instead of listening to the words being spoken by the priest, I thought of my mother the way she would have wanted to be remembered. I thought about our picnics in Central Park and the way she would sneak paints and canvases into my bedroom so I could work on my art. I remembered the way her entire face would light up when I showed her a new painting, her smile growing impossibly wide as her blue eyes shone with pride. I remembered her singing at the top of her lungs while she made dinner, dancing and shaking her hips while she stirred whatever was on the stove.

She was the best mother I could have asked for, and I just hoped she knew that. I only wish that I had stayed in New York and gone to school there. That way I could have seen her more often, instead of just relying on video calls to keep in contact with her. I regretted leaving her behind with my father, and I regretted not calling her more often. I should have done more to show her how much I loved her, how much I appreciated everything she had done for me.

Grief and regret weighed heavily on me as I stood in the cemetery under an unsuitably bright sun. I couldn’t comprehend how even as tears streamed from my eyes on the worst day of my life, the sun could be shining down on my mom’s casket and the rest of the world was carrying on as if nothing had changed. For me, everything had changed, and I wasn’t sure how I could carry on, how I could live without her.

I was drawn out of my thoughts when I heard my father’s voice carrying across the crowd. The priest must have asked him to say a few words, and he was doing just that, except everything he said was completely fake and insincere.

“My wife was the most important person in my life. She was my sun, my moon and my stars. You all know that she was always willing to help those in need. Instead of just donating money, she donated her time. She was the kindest and most compassionate person I have ever known, and nothing will or can ever take her place.”

Coming from anybody else, his words would have been beautiful, but I knew he didn’t mean a single one of them. He had looked down on the way she had spent time in soup kitchens and had affiliated herself with the ‘less fortunate’. To him, the only people that were worth his time were those with huge bank accounts. Worse, I knew my mother was as expendable to him as a pair of shoes. There may have been a time that he had loved her, but that hadn’t been the case for years.

My father returned to his place among the sharply dressed intruders, and I didn’t hesitate to walk forward and take his place. I wanted the last words spoken before my mom was buried, to be honest and from someone who truly loved her. I glanced at my father to see disapproval in his narrowed cold eyes. I’m sure my tear-stained cheeks were not fitting for the image he wanted to portray, but I couldn’t give a damn about that.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how amazing my mom was. If you knew her, then you know the kind of person she was,” I said in a voice rough from crying. “I just hope that wherever she is, she knows how much she was loved and how much she was adored. I hope that she’s at peace, because there is no one who deserves eternal happiness more than she does.”

I saw nods of agreement and small smiles from my mom’s close friends. They were the ones who knew her best and the only ones at the funeral who mattered in my eyes. A few of them cried harder with my words, but I knew they had to be said. I reclaimed my position within their ranks, satisfied that my mom would be laid to rest among those she could call friends.

I was wrong–she wouldn’t have hated her funeral; she would have loved it. My father and his business associates couldn’t take away the fact that the people who loved her were there to pay their respects. With that thought in mind, I watched as the casket was lowered into the ground, and the woman I loved more than life itself was buried.

There was no time to talk to anyone as my father practically dragged me to the black Cadillac Escalade that was waiting for us. The drive back to his penthouse was completely silent except for when the driver awkwardly cleared his throat. I was relieved when we arrived at his building and I could escape the car. Thankfully, he had ordered the driver to drop us off in the underground parking lot of the apartment complex. When we had left for the funeral the driver had picked us up at the front of the building where the press had taken photos and asked stupid questions like “How are you dealing with Rosemary’s death?”. It was a relief not to have to deal with them again.

Guests started arriving shortly after them, filling up the penthouse in their black funeral garb. I made my way over to a group of five people who used to volunteer with my mom. The three women and two men looked as morose as I felt.

“I’m so sorry for your loss Grace,” Mrs. Martin offered her condolences. “Your mother loved you so much and she was so proud of you.” Her words were sincere and heart-felt.

“Thank you, Ma’am. That means a lot,” I replied with a watery smile. “Thank you all for coming,” I said to the whole group.

“Of course, honey. Your mom was such a good friend to us all,” one of the other ladies told me.

I spent the rest of the reception with my mother’s friends, sharing stories with them and receiving earnest condolences. I was feeling completely wiped out and emotionally drained as the last few guests left, and the last thing I felt like doing was talking to my father. He of course didn’t look the least bit rumpled or tired, which was a good indication that he wouldn’t allow her to leave before they had their discussion. His brown hair was still perfectly slicked back and his suit perfectly pressed. He gave a small gesture for me to follow him and I obediently went with him to his office. I knew it would be better to just get it over with– whatever ‘it’ was.

His office looked like the one from ‘The Godfather’ with its dark and antique wooden furniture and dim lighting. It seemed a rather depressing place to work to me, but my father was a rather dreary man. I waited impatiently for him to pour himself a glass of scotch and I wanted to roll my eyes at the cliché move. I was sure it was just another tactic for him to exude the image of a wealthy and classy businessman. Finally, he turned to me and explained why I was there.

“I need you to marry Kingsley Hall,” he said plainly. “He’s agreed to merge my company with his software company if you agree to the marriage.”

It was the last thing I had expected him to say, and I couldn’t see how it had anything to do with my studies. There were no words. I could only stare at him in confusion and shock. He couldn’t honestly be suggesting that I marry someone I didn’t even know, just because he demanded it. Besides, the only thing I knew about the billionaire in question was that he was in his forties, which made him twice my age. You don’t get as rich as he is without a few years under your belt.

“Ummm… no thanks,” I replied drily. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

“He doesn't want a marriage in any true sense," he said in exasperation, as if I were being overly dramatic. “There have been rumours circulating about him," he explained. “Having a wife would improve his image and be better for business. We agreed that the marriage need only last for two or three years to properly sell the idea."

In other words, Kingsley had the reputation of being a man-w***e, and it wasn't quite the stable image that a respected businessman should have.

"I think I'll pass," I scoffed, not interested in being someone's temporary wife.

“You don’t really have a choice,” he said with confidence.

“I’m pretty sure forced marriages are illegal in the United States,” I retorted “So, yes I do in fact have a choice in the matter.”

“That may be, but I’m not forcing you to marry him. You’ll be doing it of your own free will.” His words were so wrong it was almost funny.

“I have no interest in marrying Kingsley Hall,” I said slowly and clearly, making sure my words sank in.

“In that case, you’ll find that your scholarship to Yale will be revoked and no other art department in the country will take you,” he said conversationally, like he wasn’t threatening her future.

“What are you talking about?” I asked through gritted teeth. “You can’t get my scholarship taken away. I earned my spot there.”

“Are you sure? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

His smirk was so infuriating, and, not for the first time, I wished that I could slap it off his face.

“I think that you mean that your checkbook can be very persuasive,” I said angrily. I wasn’t going to let him hide behind innuendos. “And I think you’ll find that not everyone responds to bribery,” I said confidently. Yale was a prestigious institution and they wouldn’t be bribed into kicking out a scholarship student.

“Are you really willing to risk it?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “If you marry Kingsley, I’ll make sure you have a spot at the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan. Otherwise you won’t have a chance anywhere.”

“I won’t be blackmailed into marrying a stranger,” I spat at him. “And you don’t have the reach you think you do,” I added spitefully.

He narrowed his eyes at me and took a threatening step towards me. “Don’t try my patience, Grace.”

“Then don’t threaten me,” I retorted. “You can’t force me into marrying someone I don’t love.”

“Even if it means you’ll lose your chance to do what you love?” he asked me arrogantly.

I hated to admit it, but I hesitated. Going to art school had been my dream for as long as I can remember. If he did manage to take that away from me, I would have lost everything that was important to me. Still, marrying a stranger was not something I was willing to do so I told him as much.

“I won’t do it,” I said adamantly. “And you’re disgusting to even suggest it,” I added with revulsion.

Before I knew what was happening, he had backhanded me so hard that I fell to the floor. I touched my throbbing cheek in shock. My father had always been the type to go from calm to furious in a matter of seconds.

“You don’t ever disrespect me like that,” he fumed at me. “Do you understand?”

I didn’t answer him, too busy trying to figure out how to get out the office door that he was now blocking. It was a mistake not to acknowledge his words though. He grabbed my jaw in a tight grip and forced me to look at him.

“I said, do you f*****g understand?” he roared in my face.

“Yes, I understand,” I muttered reluctantly.

He dug his fingers into my face for a few more seconds before releasing me. I stumbled to my feet ungracefully, scowling at the man who was as far from a father as he could be.

“I’ll give you one more chance to rethink my offer,” he said, fixing the cuffs of his suit.

“Over my dead body,” I seethed.

“Then you better be prepared for the consequences,” he said smugly, as if her refusal was all part of his plan.

I left the room without replying, too mad to even think of a response. I couldn’t believe that he would sell me off for a business deal like we were in the seventeenth century. It was so goddamm insulting and demeaning. There was still a kernel of doubt growing in my mind though as I got into the elevator. It was entirely possible that my father would be able to get my scholarship taken away if he threw enough money at Yale’s dean. A few minutes ago, I was confident that he wouldn’t be able to destroy my dream, but realistically I knew that everyone had a price.

I was so lost in my thoughts, that I completely forgot about the reporters that would be waiting for me when I left the building. I had to push my way through them, with the help of the doorman, all while their cameras flashed and they shouted questions about how I was coping with my loss. I ignored them as best I could, keeping my head down and away from their cameras and not saying a word as I made my way through the crowd.

People had stopped on the street and were staring at me curiously, obviously wondering who I was. I ignored them as well, used to the unwanted attention, and walked back to my hotel with only one thought in my mind– what would I do if my father followed through on his threat?