Page 1 of Slightly Married
1
“Your father is unavailable. He’s in a meeting.” Matt Christopher tensed in the doorway of my father’s home office in the family’s Upper East Side mansion, his shoulders squared beneath his tailored suit.
“At eight in the evening?” I arched an eyebrow, glancing past him at the door. The faint tone of my father’s voice carried through. It was likely another of his endless video conferences with Greece. My silk dress rustled as I shifted my weight. “This is about Simone, Matt.”
His expression hardened, but something subtle shifted in his eyes at the mention of my older sister. “Your father left explicit instructions not to be disturbed.”
Whenever we occupied the same space, tension crackled between us; not flirtation, but quiet disdain. In the six months since becoming my father’s assistant, the man had never warmed to me, and I could never figure out why. He masked it behind polite half-smiles and trivial conversation, but a low-level undercurrent of antipathy hummed beneath.
Though he was undeniably attractive in a nerdy way—towering at almost six feet five inches with those intellectual wire-rimmed glasses—there was something disingenuous about him. His watchful eyes and rigid posture were at odds with his role as my father’s assistant.
“Hey sis!” I exclaimed, my voice brightening as I waved. “What are you doing here?”
Matt’s head turned, and I slipped beneath his arm, twisted the brass doorknob, and was halfway through the threshold before he registered my ruse.
“Kayla!” His hand shot out to grab my elbow, but I pivoted away with the grace ballet lessons had instilled in me since childhood.
“I’ll take full responsibility,” I called over my shoulder as he hovered in the open doorway. I heard his muffled curse as I turned to face my father.
“Daddy,” I said, switching effortlessly to Greek. “You can’t seriously be bartering Simone off like she’s an object?” The scent of Cuban cigars greeted me.
“Sorry, sir,” Matt said from the doorway, his deep voice tinged with annoyance. “Your daughter is more determined than I realized.”
“She gets it from me.” Daddy chuckled, setting down the crystal tumbler of amber liquid. “I thought you were in Paris?”
Three months of hiding out in my Parisian apartment hadn’t been enough to fully heal, but it had given me time to lick my wounds after seeing Josh and Bethany’s pregnancy announcement online. At least until my sister’s call dragged me back to reality.
“I cut my trip short when I heard about your little arrangement,” I replied, my heels sinking into the plush Persian rug as I crossed to stand before his massive desk. “Simone called me in tears.”
Daddy’s office was meticulously organized, with family photos arranged just so. My sister’s graduation portrait behind his desk caught my attention. Her smile was radiant in cap and gown, looking so much like our mother it filled my heart with a bittersweet longing. Next to it was an image of teenage me standing on our yacht in Santorini, my braids whipping in the wind.
The photos captured our differences perfectly. While I’d inherited my mother’s defiant spirit, Simone had always been the dutiful daughter.
Because she was adopted by Daddy, she worked twice as hard to earn our father’s approval. She had perfect grades, perfect behavior and was the perfect daughter in every way except blood.
Where I pushed boundaries, Simone accommodated them. As much as she was hurting now, she would ultimately go through with this wedding.
Her need to please our father and repay him for raising her as his own, ran bone-deep. I had no such proclivities, a fact that frustrated my father but had been a source of pride for my mother.
Mama’s smiling face drew my gaze next, her photograph framed in silver, positioned where my father could see it from his chair. The familiar hollow feeling washed through me.
It had been just over a year since the rare autoimmune disease had taken her—diagnosed and gone within months, leaving us all reeling. The speed of it all still unsettled me, how quickly someone so vibrant could fade.
“Mama would never have allowed this,” I said, my voice softening despite my effort to remain firm.
Jeanette Athanasiou had transformed herself from a struggling single mother dancing nights to support baby Simone into a formidable society wife. When she married my father, shedidn’t just accept his wealth. She earned her place beside him by mastering Greek, charming business associates, and advocating fiercely for women and girls.
My eyes stung, and I blinked rapidly. I missed her steel spine wrapped in silk and grace.
“Your mother would have understood the practicalities. I want to ensure she marries well and to have our family’s legacy continue.” What he really meant to say was:I want her to marry Greek and have Greek babies.
“Daddy, please reconsider,” I whispered.
My father’s eyes softened momentarily, then grew steely. He leaned back in his leather chair.
“Your sister is thirty-two, Michaila,” he said, reaching for his tumbler again. “Women her age are established with families. The biological clock doesn’t pause for career ambitions.”
“Simone is a human being with her own dreams, not some vessel for your dynastic ambitions. Besides, she’s in love with someone else ....” I chewed off the rest, keenly aware of Matt’s eyes boring into the back of my head.
