“Do you own it?”
“It’s in a trust with a set of delayed possession clauses.”
“Like what?”
“I had to be over thirty-five, married, and the business had to pull in a certain amount of revenue per year.”
“Seriously? Why?”
“My father was… controlling. Exacting. Wanted everything his way. And no one and nothing was ever quite good enough. His father was the same.”
“Is that why you won’t let me divorce you? The trust?”
“No.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“Because even if you go through with proceedings, we would be divorced before the next five years. And as I said before, if the goal was simply ‘a wife,’ I’m sure I could find someone who has fewer… reservations.”
Okay.
Fine.
I guess that made sense.
“So, the house is just sitting empty?”
“There’s a fund to maintain it: staff, repairs, taxes. When I reach the parameters of the trust, all that will fall on me. Plus a sizable sum for renovations.”
“It’s not to your taste?”
“My father left it largely how my grandparents decorated it. Which was with a lot of brass and gold, dark woods, heavy drapery, and hideous carpets.”
“Sounds… gaudy.”
“That might be putting it kindly.”
“I don’t hate dark wood, though. I think I’d take that over all-white-everything like I see everywhere now.”
“I agree. It’s a Georgian Colonial mansion, so dark woods fit the original style. Just not so much of it.”
“Why do you want to live there if you were so unhappy there as a kid?”
His knife stilled, and his gaze cut to mine.
“It’s going to sound stupid.”
“Try me.”
“I want to raise a happy family there. It’s been two generations of miserable kids.”
Damn.
That was kind of sweet.
“You’d have to travel for work.”
“The company would be in such a position by then that it won’t need me to be present daily. And I wouldn’t get rid of the apartment. I think there are benefits to kids spending time in a big city: art, culture, walkability that allows for more independence.”
