Page 10 of The Contract Marriage

Dad is as fashionable as ever in his bespoke tux. His hair is streaked with just enough silver to impart a mature dignity—without making him look too old—and his blue eyes are still sharp, his jawline still squared and defined. He gave his dark hair and blue eyes to all six of his kids. Silas, on the other hand, has his Italian father’s coloring.

Mom looks like the perfect companion to Dad, in a pink dress with a modest neckline—very conservative by her standards since she usually likes to take the plunge. Her glossy dark hair is twisted into a fancy updo with a purple flower in the center of the bun, and the heirloom emeralds bring out her vivid eyes. Both my parents maintain themselves. Most would never believe they have seven adult sons, the youngest of whom is thirty.

Standing in a long line with my brothers as Rhys’s groomsmen, I gaze at the guests. Barely fifty people. Rhys and Max kept it to a minimum, only inviting people who are worthy of a seat at the table. Is Olivia keeping her ceremony small, too? But does she actually have anybody she can invite, people who genuinely love her and want the best for her?

Probably not. Tyler barely paid attention to her, then teamed up with Brielle to belittle and berate Olivia. The people who are closest to you assign you your place, and then everyone else takes their cue from them.

Of course, sometimes you get lucky and have people who have your back no matter what, like my brothers. I remember that terrible Thanksgiving when I was seven—

“Oh my gosh, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted another, after three kids already. It was just so…accidental, you know?” No idea what made Mom say that, but every word is etched into my mind.

“But it all worked out.” Dad patted her shoulder. “He’s so easygoing and sweet. I’m glad we decided to keep him in the end—”

Rhys slammed his hand on the table. The rest of my brothers broke into a shouting match with our parents over the airy exchange. I just sat there, unsure of what to do but wishing I could just…vanish.

I shake off the bitter memory and focus on the wedding. This isn’t the time to dwell, not when I should be celebrating Rhys’s hard-won happiness. Besides, why should I be unhappy now? I have brothers who have my back and my own professional success. I might have been an accident, but I’ve made myself into something more, so people don’t look at me and associate me with superfluousness.

Rhys’s voice shakes when he says, “I do.” Max’s eyes twinkle, and if the officiant weren’t waiting, she’d probably throw her arms around him right there.

The wedding bands from Kingswood Stones & Designs sparkle under the sun, displaying the bride and groom’s love and commitment to the world. Pride warms my heart. They’re some of the best work I’ve ever done.

My mind drifts to the ones Olivia wanted for her wedding—the set with the gaudy central stones. My aesthetic sensibilities scream no every time I think about them, and it kills me I don’t get to decide when she should have the absolute best. But perhaps it doesn’t matter, and she knows it deep in her heart. The wedding with Tyler doesn’t seem to have anything special about it: no love, no commitment and certainly no care.

She deserves better. So much better. And yet she won’t fight for it.

I can’t fathom why not. She’s smart and driven. Graduated summa cum laude from Stanford with a BS in Mathematical and Computational Science. None of the frat boys who had a crush on her ever had a chance, not when she pierced them with those wintry eyes. Jesus, when I finally had a chance to talk to her for the first time, I couldn’t even say, “Hi,” without feeling like I was about to throw up.

What makes Tyler so special? Is he just more loved by everyone around him? Does he have some indefinable quality only she can see? Maybe something I just don’t have? Did his parents jump for joy when he was born?

Jealousy sits in my belly like a ball of rancid fat. If he were a genuinely good guy who would make her happy, I could stand back and smile, even if it killed me. But this—

My hands clench at the memory of the unshed tears in her eyes—

The audience erupts into a good-humored cheer, and I look toward the altar. Rhys and Max are kissing like they’ve just discovered the act. I consciously, with effort, relax my shoulders and hands, then clap over my head, just like the rest of my brothers.

Gideon makes his hands into a megaphone. “Get a room!”

“Mr. No Romance,” Silas teases. Gideon is a tech investor, and we always joke that he’s about as romantic as a robot.

The quartet plays more music, and the bride and groom recede. Everyone starts to get up and chat as the event moves to the reception in the east wing for the cocktail hour before lunch. Another quartet—how many did Rhys hire?—plays “Rose Adagio” in the hall. Grandmother nods, a wistful smile on her face. Does she miss her years at the Mariinsky? She was the principal ballerina until an ankle injury in her thirties apparently cut her career short, way before she was ready. Even now she walks with her feet turned out, her back and shoulders straight, her head held high. Her long limbs move with the inherent grace of a world-class dancer. Her wispy calf-length dress swirls around her slim legs.

Grandfather walks next to her, like a knight guarding his lady. He doesn’t bother to do anything about his graying hair, but it somehow makes him look like a weathered warrior rather than an old geezer. He has the same sharp blue eyes Dad has, and the erect posture of a man who knows where he ranks—at the top—and what he has, which is everything.

Silas munches on something, then his dark eyes go wide.

“What is it?” If whatever he’s eating can impress the only capable cook among us brothers, it must be pretty good.

He checks his phone. “The menu says seared scallops with cauliflower purée and caviar. I gotta get the recipe.”

Xavier snorts. “Rhys practically had to donate a kidney to have Jane Pryce cater the reception, and she isn’t giving up any recipes.”

Silas’s eyes glint as he takes another bite and chews more thoughtfully.

“You should just make your own. It’s more satisfying that way,” Roarke says, ever the pragmatist. “Why do you think I started brewing my own liquor?”

“Not the same thing.” Silas turns to me. “By the way, did you already have your date with your bachelor auction winner?”

“Not yet. I sort of forgot about it.” I shrug. “To be honest, the excitement kind of died out after Max bid a billion bucks on Rhys.”