Don’t Mind If “I Do” by Everly Ashton

Two

Mazzy

One Week Earlier…

I exit the black SUV and hustle into the downtown high-rise, doing my best to not look as if I’m rushing in case photographers are around. They don’t usually bother me throughout the day, reserving that for events or red carpets I attend in the city—it’s not as if I’m a famous Hollywood actress or anything. But ever since my divorce less than a year ago, I’ve been the subject of gossip in Boston far more often than I’d prefer. If I have to answer one more time how it felt to find out my husband was banging a twenty-one-year-old barista, I might go Sean Penn on the guy. Keeping the smile on my face and brushing it off as if the affairs were a minor inconvenience isn’t the easiest thing to do, but it’s what is expected of a Pembrooke. We never show weakness, never show emotion.

But now that my grandfather passed away, I feel as if I’m walking on a razor-thin edge, ready to topple over at any moment.

I rush through the lobby of the high-rise that houses the Pembrooke family lawyer. Harold Reilly has been our family’s lawyer for years and probably knows more secrets about us than all the gossip columnists in this country combined.

I wave, rushing past the security guard. I’ve been here many times, including during the divorce of my short-lived marriage that never should have happened in the first place.

As luck would have it, the elevator doors open as I’m approaching, and I wait for it to empty. A few people step in in front of me. I step forward to join them and the heel of my studded black-and-beige Valentino catches in the gap where the marble floor meets the floor of the elevator.

I move to step forward and my foot won’t budge—but my momentum does, and I fall headfirst. Luckily, the man standing in the corner of the elevator steps forward to prevent me from bashing my head into the glass wall.

“Thank you,” I rush out. While I’m still holding on to his lower arms, I try to yank my heel out of the gap.

The elevator makes a horrendous buzzing sound, detecting that something is preventing the doors from closing.

I try again to yank my foot free. I look at the man I’m holding on to. “I think I’m going to have to take my shoe off and try to pull it out.”

“That’s not necessary. I can help.” He looks at an older lady standing on our left, watching the entire exchange. “Can you help balance her while I yank her foot free?”

The woman nods, although clearly distraught by the inconvenience. Nevertheless, she holds my arms.

The elevator alarm continues to blare as the man’s hands wrap around my ankle. He tugs. “Let me know if I’m hurting you.”

“Will do,” I say through gritted teeth. The woman’s perfume is cloying, so I hold my breath while relaxing my leg enough that he can pull on it without hurting me.

He tugs a few more times and I cringe when it hurts. “This thing is really stuck.”

“I can take my shoe off to make it easier,” I suggest once again.

“No, I think… I’ve… got it.” He wrenches my foot and a crack sounds.

It takes me a moment to register that there’s no pain in my leg and I can move it, thank God. When I thank the woman and set my foot down, I realize there’s no heel on my shoe. I turn to face the man holding the heel up with a look of apology.

“I’m so sorry,” he says.

I give him a tight-lipped smile and take the heel. “It’s fine.”

“I hope they weren’t expensive.”

“These things happen.” I toss the heel into my purse and punch the button for my floor.

At least the incessant alarm has stopped.

I reach my floor and hobble out, limping down the hall with just the one heel. As soon as I step into the over-priced law firm, Harold’s secretary waves me through since I’m late. A late Pembrooke is unheard of.

My cheeks heat as I walk past a row of desks and everyone’s attention shifts to me. Maybe because they recognize me, but more likely because of my new walk. I lift my chin to project an air of indifference. Regardless, I keep up the charade until I’m in front of Harold’s office. The door is open, and my parents are already seated.

To be honest, I’m surprised I’m even here at all. Everything of my grandfather’s will be passed to my parents. But maybe my grandfather left me one of his properties or something sentimental. That would be nice.

I don’t need his money. I’m fortunate to live off of a family trust, so I’ve tried to dedicate my life to bringing awareness to different causes. The only good thing about still being given the moniker “socialite” is it highlights whatever charity I’m working with.

I knock on the door and everyone’s head turns in my direction.

“Sweetheart.” Dad stands from his chair and walks over to me, placing a kiss on my cheek and squeezing my upper arms.

He looks formidable as always in his designer suit and slicked-back greying hair. He runs Pembrooke Financial Services, which provides accounting and auditing services to large corporations throughout North America. My grandfather started the company when he was in his twenties, and now it’s one of the largest privately held companies in North America.

“It’s not like you to be late. I was starting to worry.” The crease between his eyebrows deepens.

“Sorry, I ran into some trouble.” I gesture to my broken heel.

My dad chuckles. “Seems you did.” He helps me to the empty chair beside my mother, who takes my hand and squeezes.

She knows how hard this is for me. I’ve long been a daddy’s girl, but I was also a grandpa’s girl and the loss of my grandfather a few months ago hit hard. Especially on the tail of my divorce.

“Hi, Mazzy,” Harold says. “Are we ready to get started?” His gaze sweeps across the three of us, and we nod.

Let’s just get this over with so I can go home, put on some sweats, and stare at the TV for the remainder of the day.

“All right. As you know, Phillip had a great deal of assets in his estate, not the least of which is ownership in Pembrooke Financial Services, real estate, and stocks. I won’t go through every detail now, but each beneficiary will receive a full dossier outlining their inheritance.” He glances at my dad, who sits up straighter. “Phillip was in here a few months ago and made some changes to his will.” This time Harold glances at me, and I shift nervously. “Lydia, you’re getting his property in France and Estelle’s collection of jewelry that remained in Phillip’s possession.”

My mom dabs at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “Such a sweet man. He knew how much I love that property.”

There will be no sobbing here. My mom didn’t come from as wealthy a family as my dad did, but she was raised in high society and was trained well on how to react.

My dad places a kiss on Mom’s temple. “He always thought of you as a daughter.”

My mom presses her lips together and nods. I can tell that she’s touched my grandfather would think to leave her anything specifically.

“Thomas, you’re to get the remainder of the personal real estate holdings, including the house here, the Maui property, the Colorado property, and the one in Italy.”

I wait for Harold to continue on with the list of what my dad has been willed, but Harold turns his head in my direction. When I glance at my father, I’m fairly sure we share a look of confusion. His gaze ping-pongs between Harold and me.

“Mazzy, everything else is being passed on to you.”

My parents gasp and my stomach plummets.

“Wh-what?”

Harold continues, seemingly unaffected by his shocking announcement. “You grandfather is bequeathing you all his stocks, his ownership in Pembrooke Financial Services, and the rest of his investments.”

“He can’t do that!” my father shouts.

“But that’s… that’s…” I don’t know how much money it is exactly, but it’s A LOT. It’s the kind of money that could buy you anything in this world. I don’t understand why my grandfather would do this. He and my father always had a great relationship.

“Harold, is this some kind of sick joke?” Dad flies out of his seat, pacing behind the chairs.

“I’m afraid not, Thomas. Your father made it clear to me that he had his reasons for changing the will.”

“Why? Why would he do that?” I ask.

“There’s something else I haven’t gotten to yet. A catch, if you will.” Now Harold looks nervous, which makes me really nervous. Harold is good at his job and I’ve never seen his eye so much as twitch when he’s dealing with bullshit lawsuits and plaintiffs hurling insults his way.

“What kind of catch?” my dad asks, stopping to hold the back of the chair he vacated.

“Mazzy has to be married for six months before anything will be transferred into her name. Until then, it remains in a trust that I will handle.”

“Married?” all three of us say at the same time.

He nods. “Married. For six months.”

“Tell me this isn’t legal,” my dad says. His knuckles are white from clutching the supple leather of the chair.

“It’s legal. And if anyone challenges the will, they get nothing.” Harold drives the final nail into the conversation.

“He must’ve been losing it.” My dad pushes his hand through his thinning hair. “Or watched too many old movies.”

“But I just got divorced,” I state the obvious, given that Harold handled my divorce.

Harold shrugs. “There’s no rush or time limit. You just won’t receive anything until you’re married for six months.”

I look at the expensive brown carpet, shaking my head. I don’t understand. Not at all. Not why Grandfather would give almost his entire estate to me, nor why he would demand I was married in order to receive it.

It’s a good thing I’m in no hurry to get my hands on that money because there is zero chance I’ll be a bride ever again. Been there, done that, burned the dress.