Page 53 of Single Dad's Fake Bride
Peterson recovered first. "To whom? We demand verification of this claim."
"You'll get verification when I'm married."
"This is ridiculous," Margot said, her voice rising. "You can't possibly expect us to believe?—"
"You don't have to believe anything except what the will requires." I looked around the table, meeting each hostile stare."I'll be married within sixty-nine days. After that, this board answers to me."
Dr. Caldwell stood up, his face flushed with anger. "If you think you can manipulate us with some last-minute arrangement?—"
"I think I can fulfill the legal requirements of my inheritance." I gathered my jacket from the back of the chair. "Which is all that matters."
Margot was on her feet now, waving her hands. "You can't be serious about this charade."
"I've never been more serious about anything in my life."
"Harrison," Dr. Thornfield called as I headed for the door. "Whatever woman you've convinced to go along with this scheme—she has no idea what she's getting into. You know we'll tear it all to shreds."
I stopped at the threshold and turned back to face the room full of people who had just spent thirty minutes explaining why I was unfit to lead the institution that had shaped my entire childhood.
"She and I are in love," I said, which was mostly an utter lie, but I choked it out and swallowed the guilt anyway.
Then I walked out and closed the door behind me, leaving their voices to explode in outraged discussion. My heart pounded as I made my way down the hallway, past the familiar classrooms and trophy cases that would soon be mine to protect, toward my new office with ghosts I'd have to face if I was going to do this thing.
Sixty-nine days left.
She had to say yes.
12
SADIE
The discharge papers crinkled in my hand as I walked through the sliding doors of the hospital's detox center. Mom shuffled beside me looking pale and brittle, her overnight bag clutched against her chest. The air felt sharp after the sterile warmth of the hospital, and she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.
"I hate that smell," she muttered, not looking back at the building. "Disinfectant and bleach."
I guided her toward my car, checking my phone out of habit. Sixty-seven days. The number had been haunting me since I'd texted Harrison two days ago asking for more time. Two days I'd spent circling the same impossible decision while Mom went through the motions of detox.
"The doctor said you need to follow up with your primary care physician within forty-eight hours," I said, opening the passenger door for her.
"The doctor said a lot of things." Mom settled into the seat with a grimace. "Most of them useless."
I climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. The radio came on automatically, some cheerful morning show that felt obscene given the circumstances. I switched it off.
"I brought you coffee," I said, gesturing to the thermos in the cup holder. "The pumpkin kind you used to make."
"Too hot in here." Mom adjusted the air conditioning vents, directing them toward her face. "And that junk was never any good. I only made it because it was cheap."
The comment stung but I tried to stay patient. Getting clean wasn't exactly her idea. She had to be miserable. I pulled out of the parking lot, focusing on the traffic instead of her words. This was what recovery looked like, apparently, criticism and ingratitude wrapped in withdrawal symptoms and decades of resentment.
We drove with tension between us for ten minutes. Mom picked at the frayed edge of her sleeve and stared out the window at the passing storefronts. I tried to think of something to say that wouldn't set her off, but every topic felt dangerous.
"How long do I have to do this?" she asked finally.
"Do what?"
"The meetings. The check-ins. The whole performance."
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "It's not a performance, Mom. It's recovery."
