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To be honest, I’ve never really considered the boys whose families were named on Great-grandfather’s list. I’ve always just considered them to be villains just waiting to take their pound of flesh.
Since the day the will was read, my sister and our parents have shown their willingness to do whatever it takes to secure her inheritance, and I guess I just assumed that whoever she ended up marrying would be just as bad as they are.
But clearly, Gulliver isn’t excited at the prospect of my sister or her money. He’s angry, and if he and my sister do get married, it definitely won’t be a love match. But despite everything he’s said and the awful, demeaning things he just suggested, I, or I suppose what he suggested Penelope should do, my body isn’t reacting in the same way as my mind.
I’m scared, but alongside the fear is something else that I’m almost too confused and ashamed to acknowledge. My nipples are tight and sensitive, and there’s a pulsing between my legs that absolutely should not be there.
I don’t know if I’m turned on by the dirty things he’s saying or the way he’s saying them, or maybe it’s just him. But whatever it is, and even though I know it’s wrong, my body is still reacting. I’m trembling, vibrating with a mix of fear and desire, and I’m grateful I can’t speak right now because I have no idea what would come out of my mouth if I could.
“I guess she didn’t teach you how to follow through,” he scoffs coldly. “Jesus, Penelope, look at the fucking state of you. Maybe you really are a virgin. But I need you to listen really fucking carefully. No matter how much money comes strapped to that virgin cunt of yours, I’ll never want you. I’ll never touch you, and I’ll never fucking marry you. So, I suggest you go tout your goods to some other idiot who might,” he says with a dismissive shake of his head as he turns and walks away.
My legs move on autopilot as I follow him along the path, sucking in deep lungfuls of air in an attempt to get my trembling limbs under control. When he pauses, I tense, bracing myself for more insults, but instead he sighs, rolls his eyes like I’m being difficult, then strides toward me.
Flinching when he reaches for me, I try to shuffle backward, but his palm lands firmly on the base of my spine. Ignoring my discomfort, he forcefully guides me up the steps and onto the terrace that leads back to the living room and our parents.
All of the parents look up when we step into the room. Mom looks like she’s searching for proof that I just landed myself a husband. Dad looks calm, although his eyes are calculating and cold, and Mr. Winslow looks excited, like he can see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes.
“How was your walk?” Mom asks, her excitement almost disgustingly obvious.
“Lovely, thank you, Mrs. Rhodes,” Gulliver says smoothly. “We cut it a little short as I was worried about Penelope having to walk so far in her beautiful but impractical Louboutins.”
“Women and their shoes,” Mr. Winslow barks loudly. His cheeks are tinged a little pink, and the whiskey in his glass is sloshing around as he talks with his hands. “Perhaps this weekend, Gulliver could give Penelope a proper tour of the estate. I’m sure she’d love to see the water gardens. Then another family dinner?” he suggests more to my mom than to me or Gulliver.
“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Mom gushes. “But Barnaby and I already have plans this weekend. I’m sure Penelope would be thrilled to join you, though,” Mom answers without even glancing in my direction. But then, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I agree or not because it won’t be me attending, it’ll be my sister.
“That sounds perfect, doesn’t it, Gulliver?” Mr. Winslow says a little too brightly.
“That does sound wonderful,” Gulliver says sardonically. “But I already have plans to go sailing with Davis, Kip, and Thorn, and it would be terribly bad form to cancel at such short notice,” he says, not sounding in the least bit regretful.
“That’s okay, you can just take Penelope with you sailing instead,” Mr. Winslow suggests, his voice hardening and his eyes narrowing.
“Oh, is that Davis Aldrich?” Dad asks.
“Yes, sir,” Gulliver says, with a cautious nod. “And Kip Tudor and Hawthorn Benedict.”
“Brian Aldrich and I are good friends from our own GAA days,” Dad says brightly.
“Well then, that’s perfect,” Mr. Winslow coos, taking a sip from his glass. “Penelope can go sailing with you all, then I’ll give Brian a call, and he, Barnaby, and I can play a round or two at the club.”
Gulliver stiffens like he wants to argue, but knows he can’t. If I were truly my sister, then I’d probably be excitedly planning a suitable sailing outfit right now, but instead all my mind can focus on is the heat coming from Gulliver’s hand that’s still pressed against my back.
Dad and Mr. Winslow start to reminisce about their own time at Green Acres Academy, while Mom smiles and laughs along with them. I jolt when Gulliver drops his hand and steps away. Risking a glance at him, it’s easy to spot the barely restrained anger in his eyes as he pinches his lips together in a hard line, his jaw tense, and his shoulders rigid. He’s not happy about this, and I don’t know how or if it’s even possible for my sister to convince this boy he wants to marry her, but honestly, right now, I just don’t care. This is her life and her problem. The moment we get the hell out of this house, she can deal with her own reluctant suitors from now on, because I’m not doing this again.
Thankfully, ten minutes later, Mom declares that it’s time to leave.
“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Winslow,” I say, forcing a weary smile to my lips. “See you at school, Gulliver.”
Once we get outside, I flash Mark a grateful smile, then slide into the car, exhaling in relief the moment I’m out of sight. Mom climbs in next, with Dad following her a moment later, and Mark closes the door, leaving me trapped in the small space with my parents.
“What happened with Gulliver?” Mom demands the moment we pull away from the house.
“Nothing,” I answer.
“I want to know every single detail. I’m serious, Izabella, every detail,” she demands, her tone cold and ruthless.
Allowing my gaze to drift to the front of the car, I catch Mark’s eyes in the rearview mirror and immediately look away, ashamed. This is my family—these sociopathic, narcissistic assholes.
“Izabella,” she snaps.
