“That’s the same thing,” she snaps.
“No,” Lindy cuts in sharply, “it’s not.”
Our father ignores her. “You understand how serious this is?”
“I do,” I say. “I’ve had two years to understand it.”
My mother scoffs. “Then you’ve had two years to undo it.”
Rafe lets out a short, incredulous laugh before he can stop himself. It’s not mocking. It’s disbelief.
My mother’s eyes snap to him. “Something funny?”
“Sorry,” Rafe says evenly, “I just wasn’t aware that marriage is something you simply undo.”
She stiffens. “This does not concern you.”
“It does,” he replies calmly. “I’m married to your son.”
“If you want to beout,” my father says, stiff and uncomfortable even saying the word, “we can… support that.”
The hesitation is glaring.
“Reluctantly,” my mother supplies coldly.
“But this,” my father continues, gesturing sharply at Rafe like he’s an object rather than a person, “is different.”
“How?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately, like he’s searching for language that won’t sound as ugly as it is.
“This is binding,” my mother says instead. “Public. Permanent. You’ve attached yourself to someone who clearly has a different life to your own.”
Rafe shifts, incredulity flashing across his face while disappointment and embarrassment that my parents are truly saying this shit aloud burn my veins. “Excuse me?”
She ignores him. “Let’s be honest,” she continues coolly. “This arrangement is… convenient. For him.”
I feel my blood go cold.
“Mom,” Lindy snaps, “stop.”
My mother doesn’t even glance at her. “You’re young,” she says to me. “Successful. Wealthy. Vulnerable to people who see opportunity.”
Rafe’s grip tightens around my hand.
“And if this marriage continues,” my father adds, voice hardening, “you should be aware that you will be cast out from the will.” He focuses on Rafe. “I’m sure you’re aware of my business and our wealth. None of it will be his.”
The words land heavy and deliberate. A threat.
Rafe goes very still. For a long moment, he just stares at them, eyes sharp and assessing, like he’s finally seeing them clearly for the first time.
Then he laughs. The sound isn’t loud or even cruel. It’s more stunned.
“You can’t be serious,” he says.
The disbelief in his voice seems to irritate my mother more than anger ever could. Her mouth tightens, lips pressing into a thin, disapproving line, like she’s finally decided exactly where to place him.
“Oh, we’re quite serious,” she replies. “You expect us to believe that this—” She gestures vaguely between us, like she can’t even bring herself to be specific. “—isn’t about access?”
