A baby for my boss

The day was sunny in Seattle.

I look at my mother and feel an immense desire to dump my coffee cup all over her. I had never felt such rage toward my parents as I do now.

—What did you just say to me? —I ask, even though I know quite well what I heard.

My mother shakes her dark skirt and adjusts her black hair, cut just above the neck. She is forty-eight years old, but looks half her age.

—Ernest, darling, you know very well that if this weren’t necessary, I wouldn’t be telling you.

—It’s necessary because, a week from now, you’ve arranged for me to get married.

—It wasn’t just your mother who did it, I have a hand in this too —my father interjects—. It’s an agreement between both families, not just your mother’s.

—And because it’s not just hers, am I supposed to feel good about it? Should I feel better just because it wasn’t solely my mother’s idea? —I get up from the sofa, set my cup down on the glass coffee table, and walk toward the picture window.

The city of Seattle looks gorgeous, as sunny as a summer day even though we are in the middle of spring. I watch the pedestrians walking nine floors below. My mother’s penthouse is in the best area of the city. My family owns almost every building in Seattle.

The Hossens are in the real estate business. They’ve developed apartment complexes all over the United States and, very soon, in Europe. My parents have pushed hard to make sure I am immersed in every negotiation handled by the multinational Hossen & Domert.

—I’m sure you’re the one who put this idea into my mother’s head —I say, spinning around and pointing at my father.

—Ernest, don’t say that —my mother stands up from her chair and walks toward me—. This agreement between both families has existed for many years.

—How many years? How long have you been lying to my face? —I ask, staring right at her.

Her eyes are the exact same almond color as mine. Her hair is jet black and her lips are thin, but well-defined. Her gray hairs are starting to show, but my father forces her to cover them up, even though she’d love to let them grow out.

The only things I’ve inherited from him are his bad temper and his height.

—You don’t understand, you don’t grasp what’s going on —my mother says, her eyes watering—. We don’t intend to hurt you, neither your father nor I...

—Speak for yourself, Mom, because the only thing he knows how to do is hurt —I snap, fixing my gaze on my father, who is still sitting on the sofa—. Don’t you see how calm he looks, how relaxed he seems while you’re about to fall apart over the crap that he, surely, caused?

—You’re crossing the line, young man —his voice almost makes me laugh.

—Don’t tell me what to do or what to say. You lost that right the moment you beat me until I was nearly hospitalized.

—Honey, that was a long time ago. Things have improved.

—He’s still the exact same man, Mom —I tell her, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her gently—. I can’t marry a stranger, Mom.

—She’s not a stranger. You two met when you were little. Her mother, Eva, says she’s become famous in Canada and is finally returning to Seattle after landing a contract with a world-renowned brand.

—For God’s sake, Mom! —I exclaim—. Ten, fifteen years ago? —I ask, stepping away from her—. This is insane! I have no idea what she’s even like!

—It’s for the good of the company and our name.

—You see? —I say, kicking the armchair where I was just sitting—. This is his damn fault! He messed up and now he expects me to clean up his mess!

My mother sits back down next to my father and they both look at me uncomprehendingly, as if my reaction were overblown. Anyone watching us from the outside would say I’m the one being dramatic. But what they’re proposing to me is, quite simply, stupid. They are forcing me into a contract marriage, as if we were still living in the damn 18th century when families arranged marriages of convenience.

The housekeeper walks over and clears the empty cups from the table. She leaves in silence, ignoring my attitude.

I suppose Ana Marie, the family housekeeper, is used to these kinds of scenes. It’s always the same: my father yells, I yell louder so my mother notices me instead of him. Ana Marie must already know how this dynamic works. My father’s selfish decisions, my mother’s tears, and my furious exit, ending up at a bar drinking until I black out.

—What do you expect me to say, Mom? —I ask, running my hands over my face—. What do you want me to say?

—What we want is for you to fulfill the responsibility you have as an only child —my father steps in—. What we need is for you to say that you’re going to marry Priscilla in a week. She’s an exceptional woman. I’m sure you two will get along.

—What do you mean by that, Dad? —I ask, leaning back against the wall—. What do you mean by “we’ll get along”? It’s a damn marriage of convenience! —I exclaim—. You still haven’t had the decency to tell me why the hell you’re committing me to a woman I’ve never seen in my life.

—You’re hardly one to judge me. Do you think I don’t see the newspapers?

My father stands up and walks toward me.

—What do you mean by that? —he inquires.

—Do you think that just because I show up in magazines with a drink in my hand and a woman next to me, I’m just as rotten as you? Because some freeloaders film me at a bar, does that make me the same as you? —I say with a dismissive tone.

—Don’t push your luck, Ernest —my father growls.

If there’s one thing he has always hated, it’s being contradicted. He detests the idea that others might be right or that they can think for themselves. That is why I hate my mother’s passive, miserable attitude. I watch her feeling inferior and I want to scream at her to wake her up.

So many years with an aggressive executioner have turned her into a woman with no self-respect, incapable of seeing that they are destroying her, and yet she still clings to her tormentor believing he loves her.

—You’re wasting your time with whatever woman crosses your path.

—I beg to differ —I reply with a smirk—. I’m enjoying my youth. That way, when I’m older and married, I won’t be cheating on my wife.

—You bastard! —my father roars, raising his fist to hit me, but I’m faster and step back.

—All three of us know very well why I made that comment.

My father has been unfaithful to my mother more times than I can count.

—I’m not a kid, Dad. Don’t think you can hit me and I’ll just stay quiet.

I spit on his shoes.

—You’re a damn spoiled brat. You are going to marry Priscilla! —he yells, so loud that everyone in the building must have heard him—. You’re going to stop acting like a selfish prick and you’re going to—!

—To what? Fix the mess you dragged Mom and me into?

I look at him with utter contempt and let out a laugh.

—Sorry. Don’t count on me.

—Are you sure that’s what they want? —I hear Timotheo asking me.

—Of course I’m sure —I tell him, exasperated, as I pour myself a glass of red wine—. A marriage proposal is a marriage proposal.

—Fair enough. I can’t argue with your logic —he says sarcastically—. Even though nothing you’re saying makes any sense, I have to say it’s hardly surprising coming from my uncle.

The only one who knew everything that went on inside those four walls was Timotheo. Not just because he was my cousin, but because he was the only person I considered a brother, the only human being close to me. Close enough to know my darkest secrets—the ones I promised I’d take to the grave.

We both dress quite similarly, though I’m sure my clothes are more expensive than Timotheo’s. To him, money is a triviality, and even though my family has a lot more than his, the two of us have been thick as thieves since we were born. Our fathers are brothers, but they couldn’t be more different, like oil and water.

Carl Hossen is kind, charismatic, and good at business. My father, Critof Hossen, however, is bitter, selfish, and the most despicable human being I have ever met to this day.

Our families have grown up together, living close to each other; our mothers get along swimmingly, and Timotheo and I do too, even though nobody is forcing him to marry a stranger.

—Did they at least tell you why they made this decision?

—No. The idiot doesn’t have the balls to tell me what the hell he’s done to the company —I admit—. My mother just sat there, watching us. Nothing changed, she just listens to whatever he says and does, while her heart breaks inside.

—Have you ever thought that maybe she’s past feeling anything about what your father does?

—You majored in finance, Tim, not psychology. Just drink your damn wine.

—I’ll let your moodiness slide because what you’re going through is complete crap —he tells me, giving my shoulder a light tap.

—I don’t know what I’m going to do.

—Don’t get married, Ernest. You’re twenty-four, less than a month away from your twenty-fifth birthday.

I smile, hearing my cousin’s innocence. He has no idea what my father is capable of if I don’t marry Priscilla.

Even the name sounds like pure, spoiled-brat material to me.

—I’m scared —I admit out loud to the man who has known me my whole life—. I’m scared that if I refuse, the beatings will be for my mother this time.

The only one who knows about the beating my father gave me thirteen years, five months, and four days ago is Timotheo. Aside from my mother, no one else was there, and even if they had been, they wouldn’t have the guts to admit to the authorities that my father beat me to the point where I almost lost my life.

—Do you think your father is going to lose control again? —he asks me, taking a sip of his red wine and setting his glass down on the wooden table.

—I don’t know what to expect from him —I confess—. That’s what bothers me the most, he’s like a ticking time bomb; at any second, if he bumps into someone, he’s going to blow up and drag anyone nearby down to hell with him.

We fall silent. We finish the bottle of wine, and he stands up after dropping his card on the table so the waitress can run the tab.

—Why did you pay? —I ask, feeling uncomfortable; I hate people paying for me.

Even when it’s Timotheo.

—Because you’re the poor bastard who’s about to tie the knot at twenty-five when you’ve got your whole life ahead of you —he smiles, and I punch him lightly in the shoulder.

—Idiot —I mutter.

—Let’s enjoy tonight and tomorrow we’ll come up with a plan to get you out of this wedding.

—I can’t let him hurt Mom this time.

—He won’t, we’ll think of something —he tells me, patting my back—. You’ll see, we’ll sort it out.

I stare into my cousin’s green eyes and slowly start to calm down.

Timotheo has never lied to me or broken his word. Even so, this is completely out of his hands; this is no longer something that depends on him or his influence over my parents.

An hour later, the jet landed at the private airport owned by Hossen & Domert Enterprises.

—I can’t believe you talked me into coming to Canada just for a damn drink.

—You’re going to forget about this wedding for at least one night.

—There’s no way to forget a situation like this, Tim.

—You will. There’s nothing a blue-eyed blonde can’t fix —he says, flashing me a smile as we unbuckle our seatbelts and I finish off the glass of wine they served us on the jet.

Part of the perk of coming from a wealthy family is that conveniences are never lacking. I have a private jet at my disposal and four cars in my garage: a Mercedes, an Aston Martin, a Porsche, and my favorite: a Ford Runner.

—You’re my financial advisor, you shouldn’t be recommending that I sleep with random strangers.

—She won’t be a stranger, you’re going to ask for her name. Manners first! —he yells as we step off the jet.

—I don’t know what the hell I’d do without you —I tell him, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

We’re about the same size, though Tim must have at least a few inches on me.

—Let’s just hope that when I’m gone, your father stops dragging you into messes like this —he says, letting out a laugh.

Even though his comment sparks my curiosity, I brush it off and reply:

—Then let’s hope he dies soon.