I gave a half-hearted acknowledgment, grabbed both documents, and headed for the stairs.
Walking up the manor hallway, one step at a time. Underfoot, three-hundred-thousand-dollar marble. On both sides, family portraits that had hung for decades.
Every few steps, a wall sconce. Warm yellow light making everything look textured, carefully designed, respectable.
I'd walked this hallway for nearly thirty years. But tonight, it felt especially long.
I dropped into my study chair. Last week's unfinished reports sat on the desk. Outside the window, the manor's dark garden. Snow tonight—fine flakes pressed against the glass, falling quietly, rhythmically.
I put the marriage contract in front of me. Stared at it. Didn't open it.
Casey's face when she said those words played in my head. Tomorrow's my birthday.
I closed my eyes, pinched the bridge of my nose, and did some very serious mental organizing.
The facts: thirty-five million euros wouldn't fill the European division's hole. My father's health wouldn't allow him three more years to find another way. And I'd known since childhood what family responsibility meant.
And the most important point. The one I'd never faced directly.
Casey and I. There was a line between us. We both knew where it was. We just never said it out loud.
She did translation work in immigrant communities. She dreamed of opening a language school by the ocean. Her world was people who needed help, cheap wine and tortillas with friends after work. That was real. That was her. That was the her I really liked.
But she'd never come to Vincent Manor. Never attended any family events. Because I'd never brought her. Never.
"She's not worthy of the Vincent name."
I replayed Elizabeth's words in my head, examined them carefully. Why hadn't I argued back? That statement alone should've made me furious. Should've made me slam my fist on the table. Should've made me say "what the hell gives you the right to judge her?"
That line, I'd always known where it was. Or maybe I'd felt the same way, just never decided how to handle it.
That was the real problem, wasn't it?
Not Elizabeth. Not the Rossi Group. Not the European operations.
Me. Paul Vincent. The guy whose brain was already a third of the way here when Casey mentioned her birthday. The guy who said, "Once I get my MBA, we'll go public, I'll take you to Hawaii to see whales," then buried that promise and never mentioned it again.
Outside, snow kept falling.
Around midnight, I read the marriage contract from start to finish. Closed it. Set it aside.
Then I pulled out my phone, looked at my conversation with Casey. The screen showed her last message—a photo of her with an elderly woman at the aid center. Caption: "Finally got it approved!" Followed by a goofy celebration emoji.
I stared at that photo. For a long time.
Then typed a line. "Can I call you tonight?"
Sent it. Waited three minutes. No reply. Probably asleep.
I stared at what I'd written, then typed another line below it.
"Home. Happy birthday tomorrow."
Sent. I flipped the phone over, placed it on top of the contract, and stared numbly at the ceiling.
This is the only way, I told myself. I'll explain. When the time's right. When I figure out how to say it. When I—
Don't know how much time passed. My phone lit up, vibrated. I turned it over.
