Sylvia's thin features froze. "Oh." She patted her copper updo. "I must be thinking of Knox."
Knox didn't eat pie, but I didn't bother correcting her. "Let's get this over with." I unzipped my canvas, sherpa-lined coat and shrugged it off, and I didn't miss the way my mother's eyes widened in horror over my appearance.
Usually, I dressed in the way she preferred, in designer outfits she sent me weekly, but not this time. If I was going to engage in amergerwith some dude, then he was going to get the full effect. I had on a faded T-shirt that could have been blue or black, with the washed-out image of a possum and raccoon re-enacting the carpet scene from Aladdin on the front. My jeans had suspicious stains over faded patches dangerously close to becoming holes, and my boots were practically falling apart.
"Arabella—" Sylvia began.
I marched forward. I knew this house's layout from the few times I'd been forced here, and I remembered that the "parlor" was a sitting room type thing just off the dining room. Sylvia followed me as I fast-walked down the opulent hallway, past a sitting room that I would bet my shitty boots she had never once sat in, and then past an enormous office. I found the dining room, pristinely decorated with fall foliage in the center of the polished oak table, and then I veered left through an arched entrance.
The parlor had a distinctly vintage feel to it, with dark green, velvet couches with curved backs, a bay window draped with heavy, dark drapes, and an intricate rug beneath the dark wood furniture. It was probably the smallest room in the house, and a cheery fireplace lit the space with a soft glow. A man stood by the fireplace, white coffee cup in hand and gaze automatically finding mine.
He looked… nice, actually. He had soft, chestnut hair that curled over his ears endearingly, and although hedidhave a mustache, it was a little bit stylish if I was honest. That might have been because, objectively, he was handsome, with a strongjawline and kind, hazel eyes. And he was wearing a normal T-shirt and jeans, which clashed with the gilded details in the room. I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised that Mom had found me an attractive groom. Sylvia was all about appearances and prestige. Her standards were clearly higher than mine.
Sylvia swept in before me. "Harry! This is my daughter, Arabella. Arabella, Harry."
I didn't move from the doorway. He might look kind of cute in a likes-vinyl-records-and-French-press-coffee kind of way, but that didn't change the nature of our meeting. "Hi, Harry," I said coldly.
He looked entirely unsure of himself, rotating to face me better and giving off the vibe that he’d rather be smothered by Sylvia’s oversized cashmere monstrosity than be here. "Nice to meet you, Arabella."
Shit, my mom must have something good on this guy.I folded my arms, leaning against the door. "You want to marry me, Harry?"
He paled under his mustache. "Uh, yeah."
I bobbed a glare to my mother. "I'm smitten."
"Arabella," Sylvia bit out through a clenched smile. "Come in. Have a seat. Chat."
Harry immediately sat on a forest green sofa like he'd been ordered to heel. I stayed put. "You asked me to meet him. I've done that. I'm not sure anything more is required for this farce." I gave the poor fiancé an apologetic glance. "No offense."
"Eh," he held up a hand. "No, it's… Yeah. I get it."
"I insist," Sylvia glared, her fake smile falling.
My molars crunched together painfully. I would have to smooth things over, but I had no idea how to act in a situation this surreal. Should I have consulted some Regency handbooks on how to survive arranged marriages? Woodenly, I rotated to face Harry again. "I'm sorry if I was rude. Tell me… about you."God, humans were insufferable. This was why I had chosen to work with animals.
"Uh, well." Harry stood again, probably realizing that he was the only one in the room actually sitting. "I'm a partner with Hawthorne and Lockwood—"
Ah, my mother's preferred law firm. She kept them on retainer.
"—and I like collecting as a hobby."
I was too afraid to ask what he collected, judging by the pink that stained his cheeks when he'd said it. Sylvia cocked her head, feigning interest. "Do tell. I, myself, am an avid collector of vintage couture handbags. A weakness of mine," she chuckled hollowly.
I cringed. God, save me from this conversation. "Wow."
Harry cleared his throat, smiling awkwardly. "I actually collect fast food toys." I blinked, wondering if I'd misheard him, but then he rushed to add, "You know, like the little toys they put in kids' meals? Some of them are actually really valuable, especially from the nineties."
"Wow," I said again, this time with incredulous breathlessness. That was beyond creepy. The guy with the mustache collected kids' toys from fast food children's meals. Nothing weird about that,at all.
"What a delightful quirk," Sylvia offered, her voice just as strained as her smile.
There was no way this was happening. I took a step back toward the dining room. "Well, this has been—"
"Arabella." Sylvia hooked me with a stare that dredged up every painful, terrifying moment from my childhood. Flashbacks flooded my mind, drowning me in harsh words and the sharp sting of disciplined slaps. Cutting words that filed away my self-confidence. Sharp barbs that lodged themselves in my deepestbeing. My entire body snapped tight, muscles bunching to the point of pain and my jaw clenching hard.
I couldn't do this. As I looked between my mother's designer appearance and the groveling mutt she had conjured out of her network of blackmail prospects, I realized the truth of my situation.
I could never go through with this. I couldn't let this woman manipulate my life like this. First, it would be this absurdity of a marriage, but then what? Would she force me to bear grandchildren? Eventually force herself into their upbringing so she could have the do-over she so desperately craved after Knox and I had wiggled out of her grasp? That future yawned before me with a drooling, hideous maw, and I accepted the horror of it.
