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The proposal is a quiet, dignified ordeal. I find it tacky when people ask others to marry them in public settings, where it’s impossible for their significant other to decline.
I take Grace to a nice dinner, buy a fine bottle of wine, and, when we return to the rental house, present her with a mammoth diamond ring.
“My goodness. How unexpected! Is that the Catherine?” she coos, accepts, and gives me a twenty-minute blow job that results in two Tylenols for her jaw afterward.
She is happy. Happy enough to hum, and laugh, and even have a piece of cake for dessert. So happy she kisses me when we take walks on the beach and clings to me, nuzzling my neck, and can’t stop talking about how she wants to start a charity when she quits work.
We are getting married. Mission accomplished. And yet. And yet. I can’t say I’m truly satisfied. I’ve reached the top of Everest, only to find out I can barely breathe up there.
The evening before we go back to New York, I take Grace to a yacht club. She munches on her green salad and wiggles her delicate fingers, letting the engagement ring catch the last sunrays pouring through the glass windows.
Looking at it, I decide that Christian was right about what he said when I took him ring shopping earlier this month. Someone is going to cut off this woman’s finger to get their hands on this piece of jewelry. I make a mental note to buy her a toned-down ring for everyday functions. I would strongly prefer it if all my future wife’s extremities remain intact.
Grace is talking animatedly now. Something about our parents. My eyes keep darting to the ring. It is impossible to look away. It looks uncomfortable to wear. It takes so much space on her bony hand.
This is a statement. One old-moneyed people do not like to make.
I’m so rich I gross myself out. Bow down, you peasant.
This is the kind of piece I’d expect Cardi B to wear. Not a gently bred, private school–educated woman from Scarsdale. But Grace always felt less than. Maybe because her father moved to Australia before she was even born. Maybe because she was made in sin, in secret, in shame, for the sole purpose of hurting my father.
“Arsène, have you been listening to anything I just said?” Grace frowns, snapping me out of my reverie.
I blink, taking a sip of my sparkling water. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Please repeat that.”
She flushes, looking a little embarrassed.
“I was talking about the will.” She licks her lips, her eyes skittishly moving around the crowded room.
“What about it?”
“Well, now that we’re engaged, maybe it’s best if we write each other into our individual wills. You know, just in case.”
“In case what?” My jaw hardens.
“Anything happens.”
“Define anything.”
Grace tried to kill me at least once in our lifetime (intentionally, unlike what I did to her). Which—call me a hopeless fucking romantic—was once more than your significant other should. It was a long time ago, but I wouldn’t put it past my beautiful, cunning fiancée to try it again.
She is a highly resourceful woman, and I am a very rich man.
She flicks her wrist, chuckling pensively. “I know you’re thinking about that time. That was just a stupid teenage retaliation. I was a kid. Hormonal as hell. Underdeveloped frontal lobe, et cetera.”
“Your underdeveloped frontal lobe is not my concern. Your underdeveloped conscience is.”
She pouts. “That’s not a very nice way to talk to your fiancée.”
I smirk, the back of my fingers brushing her cheek. “Niceness is not a trait we look for in one another.”
“Won’t you even think about that? For me?” Her eyes are two onyx diamonds. “Knowing how much that means to me. The trust, obviously. Not the money. Just the trust.”
It’s not like I have any living family to give my possessions to. If I were to die tomorrow, it is likely Grace will get at least a good portion of everything I own. Along with Miranda, someone I want nowhere near my shit.
Still, it doesn’t take a genius to see Grace’s intentions are anything but pure. We’re both in our thirties, healthy, and in no immediate danger of cashing in our chips.
“No,” I say flatly.
“No?” She blinks, looking genuinely surprised. She is not accustomed to that word, especially from me.
“No,” I repeat. “I don’t intend to think about it.”
“Oh . . . well, I understand.” But she doesn’t. Which is why she deflates like a balloon.
“I plan on leaving everything I own to the Planetary Society,” I continue.
She reaches for the pearls on her neck, playing with them. “That’s fine. I . . . I shouldn’t have asked.”
Someone give the woman a Razzie Award. She is terrible at playing the innocent part.
“So you can call off the engagement right now,” I urge her, almost tauntingly. “If this is a deal breaker for you.”
