‘Georgios has a son. Well, he has three, but this only concerns Asher.’
And there’s that second bell.
Asher Vouvalis.
Everything I know about Asher Vouvalis could fit on a Post-it note – and there’d still be room left to write on it. I know that he’s the third Vouvalis boy, that we attended the same university ten years ago, and – well, that’s aboutit. Vouvalis Resorts was still in its infancy a decade ago and Asher and I didn’t really exist in the same social circles at university. I can vaguely picture him in the periphery of my memories, but it’s nothing concrete. The only thing Idoremember is that he was a friend of a friend’s friend, and I think I wordlessly passed a bottle of wine to him at a party years ago.
Maybe.
Aside from that one potential interaction, Asher and I have never said so much as one word to each other and, over the last ten years, he’s faded into relative obscurity. Nothing like his brothers Andreas and Theodore, who have dominated business broadsheets and Instagram gossip pages with deal after deal, and scandal after scandal, for as long as I can remember.
‘What about him?’ I ask cautiously, the knot in my stomach growing tenfold.
My father meets my eye and holds my gaze for the first time since I stepped into his car. ‘Georgios and I have been discussing a union of sorts.’
‘A union?’
‘A marriage,’ my father clarifies, with only a hint of a wince. ‘Between you and his son. Asher.’
‘A marriage,’ I repeat slowly, blinking in disbelief at my father. ‘Between me and Asher Vouvalis?’
I think he interprets the stunned look on my face as something else entirely – something positive – because he relaxes ever so slightly into his seat. ‘Yes, exactly. If the relationshipbetween our two families goes beyond just business, the shareholders and investors will be more likely to jump aboard the idea.’
‘You want tomarryme off to Asher Vouvalis so you can get a deal over the line?’ I can’t tell whether it’s rage or pain that’s making my voice crack like this. ‘This is… This is—’
‘This is justbusiness, Imani. And it won’t be forever,’ he says. ‘A year or two. Three, tops. Just enough time for us to get the merger through and make sure everything is settled and sorted.’
‘Oh, just a year?’ I ask sarcastically. ‘Well, that’s fine then, isn’t it? Force me to marry a complete stranger for a couple of years and then I can divorce him and get on with my life. A perfectly normal ask.’
‘Imani,’ my father says. ‘Please be reasonable.’ He reaches across the seat and tries to place a placating hand on my thigh.
‘Reasonable?Reasonable?’ I jerk away like his touch is acid. ‘I’m your daughter. Not a business deal. Not an asset. Not a means to an end. Yourdaughter. Yoube reasonable.’
His expression shifts, a mix of regret and frustration clouding his features. ‘I knew you would need some time to adjust to the idea—’
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of my throat and I shake my head. ‘There’s no adjusting, Dad. I can’t believe you would evensuggest—’
‘It’s not a suggestion, Imani.’ His gaze hardens, the veneer of fatherly concern slipping away as quickly as it came. ‘Things are different than they used to be. Air travel acrossthe board is lower than it’s ever been.’ There’s a touch of frantic desperation to his tone, and alarm bells start to ring in my mind. ‘If we want to survive, we need to adapt. Make sacrifices.’
‘And what’s the sacrifice here supposed to be?’ I scoff. ‘Because all I see is you prioritising profits over your own daughter’s happiness.’
‘Enough, Imani.Enough.’ His voice echoes around the car. ‘Your happiness has been my one vice for as long as I can remember. I can’t force you down that aisle, Imani—’
Damn right, he can’t.
‘But understand this. The life you know now? The trips, the clothes, the life of luxurymyhard work has afforded you? That will all cease to exist if you refuse to cooperate.’
It feels like he’s got a hold of my neck.
He’s bluffing. Surely, he’s got to be bluffing.
‘Mum won’t allow it. She won’t let you—’ I start, but my father shakes his head.
‘Your mother is already in agreement. We’ve discussed this at length.’
Something splits inside me. I don’t believe it. Iwon’tbelieve it. I’ve grown up listening to Gwendoline Davies recount, always with a soft, shy smile, the story of how she and my father met at a mutual friend’s wedding. How he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she glided down the aisle ahead of the bride. How he spent the entire ceremony committing every inch of her to memory, barely even listening to the priest or the happy couple as they shared their vows. Howhe strongarmed one of the groomsmen into swapping seats with him so he could sit beside her at dinner. How, when she first turned to look at him, her brows furrowed in confusion when she realised he wasn’t who she was expecting to be sitting beside, my father knew he was already in love. How they spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms, dancing the night away under the moonlight.
Surely my parents want that for me? The kind of love that sweeps you off your feet, leaves you breathless and promises you the world?
