“I taught you to be afraid of needing people. To prioritize achievement over connection. To think that love is a luxury you can’t afford if you want to be successful.” He shakes his head. “Those were my mistakes, Benjamin, not wisdom worth passing down.”
The conversation is becoming too intense, too real for the generic coffee shop setting. I feel like we should be having this discussion in a more private place, somewhere that matches the weight of what he’s sharing.
“I hope you do better than I did,” he says finally. “I hope you and Freya build something real together, something that will sustain you through the difficult times.”
“I hope so too,” I manage, though I know we’re building exactly the opposite. The plan is for this marriage to fail.
“Your mother and I will be flying back to California Sunday morning,” he says, returning to more practical matters. “Butwe’re both very happy for you. Freya seems like she’s turned into a wonderful woman.”
“She is wonderful.”
“Then don’t mess it up the way I did.”
After we part ways outside the coffee shop, I drive to the wedding venue feeling more unsettled than when the day started. My father’s unexpected honesty has forced me to confront some uncomfortable truths about what I’m doing to Freya, and to myself.
I’m about to enter exactly the kind of loveless, practical marriage that my father just described with such regret. The kind of relationship he warned me against, the kind that prioritizes appearances over authenticity.
The kind that will leave both Freya and me as polite strangers who share a legal document and a public image.
The estate looks even more beautiful in the late afternoon light, all golden stone and perfect hedges and flower beds. Freya’s car is already in the parking area when I arrive, and I find her standing in the rose garden where our ceremony will take place Saturday afternoon.
She’s wearing simple jeans and a shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking more like herself than she has during any of our recent public appearances. It’s the way I know her, the way I love her, and though it’s such a simple look, it takes my breath away.
“How was the suit fitting?” she asks when she sees me approaching.
“Fine. Everything’s ready.” I join her in surveying the space where we’ll exchange vows in a few days. “How does it look?”
“Perfect. Michelle has everything under control.”
We walk through the venue together, checking details that have already been checked multiple times. The seating arrangement, the flower placement, the sound system setup. It’s all flawless, exactly what you’d expect from a wedding that costs a stupid amount of money.
But the conversation between us feels stiff, formal. Wrong. This isn’t us.
“Freya,” I say as we finish our walk-through. “Can we sit for a minute? I want to talk to you about something.”
We find a bench in the garden, surrounded by roses that will provide the perfect backdrop for our wedding photos. She perches carefully on the edge of the bench, maintaining space between us that feels deliberate.
“I’ve been thinking about everything you’re doing for me,” I begin. “This whole arrangement, the time you’ve invested, the way it’s complicated your life. I don’t think I’ve adequately compensated you for what this has cost you.”
“Ben, we already discussed?—”
“I want to give you an additional five million dollars.”
The words hang in the air between us. She stares at me like I’ve just suggested we run away and join the circus.
“Five million dollars,” she repeats slowly.
“Yes. Beyond what we already agreed on. For everything you’ve done, everything you’re doing. You deserve more than what we originally negotiated.”
“Ben, I can’t accept that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s… it’s too much. It makes this feel like…” She struggles for words. “Like I’m being paid to be your wife.”
“Aren’t you?”
The question comes out harsher than I intended, and I immediately regret it. Freya flinches like I’ve slapped her.
