As You Wish.

Parker

Did you ever get the feeling you weren’t good enough? At some point in life, it’s a sensation we have all witnessed within ourselves. For me, it started before I had even entered the world—I wasn’t a boy. I was quite literally born a disappointment; to my Father, that is. Mum always had a warm place in her heart for me, but considering I haven’t seen her in years, thanks to Father’s tyranny, I’m not sure that warmth is still relevant.

I was the product of two people who married for money and status—not love. That doesn’t happen in this day and age, I hear you say; if only that were true. Father is a multi-millionaire. He owns businesses all over London, and when that income wasn’t enough, he started to set up all over the globe. He also comes from ‘old money’. We’re talking about the kind of money that easily turns an old white man into a narcissistic dictator—and did. Mum’s family were old money too; Father only bothered with that side of the family until they refused to hand over any more money.

Cutting this long story short, Father was unfaithful several times throughout their marriage. Mum filed for divorce, Father took her to court and gained everything—including me. He didn’t want me, of course, but he knew it would hurt Mum more than anything else ever could.

I loathed growing up with my Father. He has always been and likely always will be a cold and heartless man. His heart is in business and his fortune, and even then, I’m sure it’s made of stone—even hearts made of ice thaw when warmed, but not his. I was never in his company for long, the odd function here and there when I had to show face for his benefit to play the ‘doting’ single dad. Christmas lunch for maybe an hour, if he even bothered to show up. My childhood was spent with whatever nanny he’d hired. I had many nannies growing up. Sooner or later, they were all scared away by his cold attitude and leering advances.

~**~

After hearing about my delightful upbringing, I’m sure you can understand why I’m left feeling dead inside. It should also give you some insight as to why I’m wandering around this cold, stark, two-storey apartment in the penthouse of one of the grandest buildings in the city. Sure, it’s palatial, screams wealth, and I should feel far more grateful to live here than I do. Do I live here, though? You can’t tell by walking through the communal areas; even our bedroom screams, ‘I’m a bachelor.’ They were all designed by Matthew, my fiancé and haven’t changed since I moved in with him. I’ve suggested a redesign, something to show both of us live here; it didn’t go down well. Let’s just say I haven’t brought it up since.

Only one room feels ‘lived in’ to me. It’s the one room I’ve been allowed to claim as my own. The only way anyone visiting our home would know that I exist here only Matthew ‘forgets’ to show it to people. My office. I say office, but it’s more like a sitting room. My sanctuary, as I affectionately refer to it. I’d never tell Matthew I call it that. He’d only laugh at me and tell me what a ridiculous idea that was. When I live such a luxurious life with such a ‘wonderful’ man, why should I need a sanctuary; he’s right, of course.

Inside my sanctum, I snuggle down on the plush, grey sofa to appreciate the space I’ve created. It’s funny, the colour palette of this room is, for the most part, the same as the rest of the flat, greys in varying hues, but the splashes of teal, the warm oak furniture, the artwork on the walls, and the potted plants add an extra depth and sense of home to the room, unlike the harsh, cold, unloved areas outside the door that protects me.

I am often found here by various members of Matthew’s staff curled up with a good book or watching another 80s movie. My eyes drift to the shelving unit, covered in many trophies and achievements from my ballet days. A wistful smile curls onto my face. Those were the days. Not anymore, of course. A lady engaged to be married shouldn’t fill her life with a career or profession. Even an overly exerting hobby is a no-go.

Being the good daughter and wife-to-be that I’m expected to be, I hung up my ballet slippers for the last time last year. I miss it desperately, but as Father and Matthew explained, ‘Ballet was the dream you had as a child, and you are not a child anymore. You should focus your attention on other passions.’ I just wish I knew what passions they were.

The sound of the front door being opened confuses me. It’s the middle of the day, and I’m not expecting anyone. Matthew never leaves work early. In fact, it’s quite a regular occurrence for him to stay at the office late into the night. He’s also been known to go out for dinner with colleagues or attend one of the many clubs he owns.

It can’t be Elena, our cleaner. She arrived early this morning and left around ten. What she finds to clean each day is beyond me. The place is spotless. Mostly because it’s just me here, all day, every day. I don’t make much mess, and whatever mess I do make, I clean up as I go. I’ve suggested to Matthew that we let her go; he’s never been keen on the idea. Maybe it’s because having a cleaner ‘gives him status,’ or maybe it’s because Elena is one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen, most likely both.

As I stroll down the stairs to the door, I’m surprised by the voice I hear, “Darling, I’m home.” Ah, Darling, a nickname I am only ever called when we have company. I wonder who it is. I hope it isn’t one of his more handsy friends or associates.

When I reach the door, I greet Matthew with a choreographed kiss on the cheek, “What are you doing home so early, Darling?” He pulls away, ending the kiss early. He isn’t a fan of public displays of affection, even though in public is one of the few times he will show me affection, even if it is fake.

Without acknowledging my question, Matthew starts the introductions. “Darling, I’d like you to meet James Young. James, this is my fiancée, Parker Smith.”

James holds out his hand to shake mine, I look at Matthew, and he gives me a sharp nod, showing me I’m allowed to reciprocate. Taking James’s hand gently, I offer a small shake and a smaller smile. As I’m about to retreat, he squeezes my hand tighter, holding me in place. I look up at him. What is he playing at? Is this some kind of show of dominance? His eyes catch mine, and I get a little lost in the gunmetal blue of them. It takes Matthew clearing his throat to bring me back.

After glaring at me disapprovingly, Matthew proceeds to show James around. I follow dutifully, silently. Knowing I’m here as a prop and nothing more. Being ignored so often allows me certain benefits, though. I can take a chance to appraise James as he wanders our home. His athletic build is showcased beautifully in the well-fitted suit he wears; it’s an expensive suit. His face is serious, with a strong jaw that clenches as he listens. He has a little well-groomed stubble on his chin; he’s well-kempt and obviously looks after himself. The longer I watch him, the more I can appreciate what a good-looking man he is. Matthew is a handsome man, but he doesn’t have anything on James. Can I say that about the man I’m supposed to marry?

I suppose that’s just it. Had I chosen Matthew for myself, I might feel differently towards him. I might treasure his appearance and personality more. But Father set us up as a ‘good match.’ I think it’s foolish. Look how it turned out for him and Mum. However, I daren’t voice my opinions; I know better than that.

James’ eyes dart around our home like he’s scoping the place out, and I’m curious to know if this man is one of Matthew’s security team. He rarely brings his friends or colleagues here, and if it were the latter, I would have been given a briefing beforehand, so he must be staff. As the men continue the tour upstairs, I decide to make myself scarce and find something to do.

I’m clattering about in the kitchen—in my own little world when they emerge from the upper landing, descending the stairs. The two men are mid-conversation, I wouldn’t usually care or listen, but it piques my interest when I hear my name. Matthew tells James the spare bedroom will be his to decorate how he pleases. The gym is two floors down, and he has full use and access to it.

“Sorry to interrupt, Darling.” My voice is meek.

Matthew rolls his eyes at James before giving an apologetic look, then looks at me with daggers in his eyes, “Yes, Dear?” His voice snips.

“Did you say he was moving in?” I ask, confused.

Matthew scoffs at my question, “Of course, he is. As your new bodyguard, he’ll need to be available around the clock,” he quips, like fact should be apparent to anyone with a brain.

“But why do I need a bodyguard?” I’m so confused. I don’t go anywhere. Why on earth would I need protection?

“Because of my status, Darling. Now off you pop, we have things to discuss before I return to work.”

‘Off you pop,’ just like that, the conversation is over. I don’t like it, but ‘off I pop.’

~**~