Chapter 7
Chapter 7
11 288 Wouchers
There it was again.
This topic was like a fishbone caught in my throat, causing a dull ache every time I swallow.
“Mom, the new project is just getting stable…”
“I’m not urging you to date,” she interrupted.
“Do you remember Randall Whitman, the youngest son of the Whitman family? He used to follow you around when you were little. After graduating from the University of Oxford, he worked in the City of London for a few years and just got back recently.”
A memory surfaced of a boy who always smiled quietly, always half a step behind me.
I frowned. “Mom, I’m not interested in dating right…”
“You need this.” Mom set down her fork.
“The Whitmans have been close with our family for three generations. Randall is capable and principled. He’ll be a great help to the Mansfield Group. I’ve already spoken with his mom. You should meet him.”
She paused. “If you hit it off, you can see where it goes. If not, just take it as making a friend.”
The cruise ship on the river sounded its horn, blending with my mother’s voice. “Breezy, don’t lose your faith in love because of Darion.”
The mention of the name “Darion” still stung.
I stared at the lemon slices floating in my cup, suddenly finding it all absurd.
All those grand promises had turned out to be nothing but an elaborate lie.
Maybe Mom was right.
People should marry someone of equal social standing to avoid getting stabbed in the back someday.
I rotated the cup in my palm and said, “Alright, I’ll meet him.”
Things moved forward at an incredible pace.
With both families cooperating, my engagement to Randall was quickly settled.
There was no romantic courtship, no deliberate surprises.
On the day we signed the prenuptial agreement, the lawyer went over the terms meticulously, covering property nota- rization, responsibility division, breach of contract clauses, and more.
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Chapter 7
288 Vouchers
Randall sat at the other end of the long table. Occasionally, he’d tap the paper with his pen to suggest revisions, as professional as if he were reviewing a merger contract.
“After the wedding, we’ll live in my old villa in Manhattan. It’s a ten-minute drive from the financial district,” I said, flipping through the documents.
“Okay,” he replied without looking up. “I don’t have many belongings. My secretary will send some essentials over tomorrow.”
“Alright.”
His pen scratched across the paper. “My dad would like to invite your dad to play golf this weekend.”
“No problem.” I closed the folder.
Just as we started to have the wedding invitations printed, an unexpected visitor disrupted this carefully arranged mar- riage.
It was dusk by the time the meeting ended. I rubbed my sore neck and walked out of the Mansfield Building.
A white BMW with peeling paint screeched to a halt in front of me.
The car door swung open, and Darion stumbled out.
He had grown gaunt, his cheekbones sharp. His suit was wrinkled. His tie hung crookedly around his neck.
His once charming eyes were now bloodshot. His chin was rough with stubble.
“Breanna, I’m divorced.” He waved the divorce certificate, his nails edged with grime. “Look, it’s freshly issued.
“We can get married now. Come on, let’s go register right now.”
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