“I’ll take care of her,” I say, because it’s the only true thing I can offer. “I’ll always take care of her.”
“I know you will. And she’ll take care of you, too. That’s how this works.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Welcome to the family, Ben.”
The rest of the evening passes too quickly. By ten o’clock, everyone is making noises about heading home. My parents are staying at a hotel downtown, and they’re among the first to leave, my mother actually hugging Freya goodbye and telling her how lovely it was to spend time with her.
“They like you,” I tell Freya as we wave goodbye to her parents.
“They’re not what I remembered,” she admits. “Your mother, especially. She’s much warmer than I thought she’d be.”
“Being away from work and social obligations brings out their better sides, I think.” I sit on it a bit more. “Maybe it’s the time that has passed, too. I dunno. Maybe they’ve changed.”
Bella and Mark are the last to leave, Bella pulling Freya aside for a quick sister conversation while Mark shakes my hand.
“Thanks for having us,” he says. “This was really nice. Freya seems happy.”
Does she? I want to ask. Because I can’t tell anymore what’s real and what’s performance.
After everyone’s gone, I start clearing glasses from the patio, expecting Freya to stay and chat, to maybe sit by the pool and decompress from the evening the way we used to after big events in high school.
Instead, she gathers her purse.
“I should head home,” she says. “Early workout class tomorrow.”
“Oh. Of course.” I try to hide my disappointment. “Thanks for tonight. You were incredible with everyone.”
“So were you. Your parents really do seem to love you, you know. In their own way.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
She hesitates at the door, like she wants to say something else, but then just gives me a small smile. “Good night, Ben.”
“Good night.”
I return to the empty rooms of my penthouse, which feel even more cavernous when not filled with family. The caterer has cleaned everything, leaving no trace of the evening except the lingering scent of the flowers Freya’s mother brought.
I pour myself a scotch and sit on the patio, looking out at the pool that reflects the lights of the city beyond. The spacefeels different now that it’s been filled with laughter and conversation. Less like a magazine spread and more like a place where people actually live.
Tom’s words echo in my mind: Marriage isn’t a feeling. It’s a decision you make over and over again.
What if it was real? The thought creeps in despite my attempts to push it away. What if Freya and I actually got married, not for business deals or public image, but because we wanted to build a life together?
What if I came home every night to someone who knew me, really knew me, the way Freya does? What if I had someone to share these moments with—dinners with family, quiet evenings by the pool, celebrations of each other’s successes?
What if I stopped being afraid of wanting something more than just professional achievement?
The space around me feels enormous and empty, a monument to success that lacks any real warmth or connection. I’ve built an empire, accumulated wealth beyond most people’s dreams, and achieved every goal I set for myself in high school.
But sitting here alone, I realize that none of it means anything if there’s no one to share it with.
I think about how natural it felt to have our families together tonight, how right it seemed to navigate tonight together.
I think about how much I wanted her to stay after everyone left, not for any strategic reason or public appearance, but just because I like having her around. Because she makes everything better, even fake dinner parties with fake in-laws discussing a fake future together.
The problem is that what I want doesn’t matter. Freya made it clear that she’s doing me a favor with a predetermined end date. She’s counting down the days until she can get back to her real life, free from the complications of being associated with me. She wants to find a man who can truly love and care for her in a way I never learned to.
In a way that, despite what her father seems to believe, I know I probably can’t do.
In a little over a year, when our contract expires, I’ll be right back here—alone in this beautiful, empty penthouse, with nothing but work to fill the silence.
