Page 9 of Not His Bride

Gallagher sits at my right. His hand rests on the table, wedding ring catching the light every time he moves it. I love it. It means he chose me, and I him.

Right now, Debbie stands on the dais behind my chair. She’s wearing her iconic red dress with crimson lips, and her hair is so glossy that the chandelier might as well exist just to reflect off her. There’s a champagne flute in her hand, but I don’t think she’s tasted it yet.

Debbie clears her throat and raises her glass for the cameras to catch the entire thing.

“If I could have everyone’s attention for a moment,” she begins, voice butter-smooth.

A hush falls. Even Gallagher straightens.

Debbie sweeps the room with her gaze, like the brand machine she is. “I want to say how lucky we all are to be here tonight, celebrating Lilith and Gallagher. Partnerships like this are rare. True alignment is what every family hopes for, isn’t it?”

My mother dabs her eyes, but I don’t feel any of it. All I focus on is Debbie’s thumb, poised along the side of her phone. I feel something coming and don’t know what to think of it. Is she going to show me singing show tunes at the top of my lungs?

With Debbie, public embarrassment can pass for a joke so long as people laugh. Dad spent most of our lives pitting us against each other in the name of competition, and Debbie got used to being adored. If somebody complimented work I’d done, she’d upload at least ten selfies to Instagram just to garner more attention for herself.

She never minded winning, but she minded when I did.

Her smile widens. Every camera in the place catches it. “I won’t go on for long. Let me show you.”

Her thumb presses down.

The wall behind the dais—the one reserved for the slideshow of family pictures and congratulatory business logos—bursts to life. White first, almost blinding with the sudden switch, then a split-second of a blue loading bar. Three hundred heads swivel in unison.

Sound crackles. The room’s built-in speakers hum. The microphones on the table pick up everything, including my shaky inhale.

Then Gallagher’s voice. This version is raw.

“Maybe after we close, I’ll ask my future bride.”

My father answers, “You mean Lilith, right?”

A few people shift in their chairs. Beside me, Gallagher’s hand, the one I was admiring five minutes ago, flattens against the table. “Phillip, what is this? Debbie, turn it off!” Gallagher demands. But the video continues, this time with his video voice.

“I think you’ve misunderstood. Debbie’s the best fit for my image. Her reputation, her profile, it’s already national. People respond to her. She’s made for this. She’s also got the temperament, ruthless when she needs to be. That’s what this merger demands.”

I don’t understand what I’m hearing until my father’s voice comes through the speakers.

“Debbie is not available for this arrangement.”

“You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“Why isn’t Debbie available?”

“There’s a pending proposal from the Fraser side.”

The projection changes from black to grainy video. The angle is strange, partially blocked by a curtain, but I immediately recognize the ballroom. The wedding we were all at when Gallagher approached my father. Debbie must have been recording from the alcove.

Gallagher is standing across from my parents with a glass in his hand.

“What does Fraser have that I don’t?”

“Five million more in publicly verifiable assets,” my father says. “More favorable press.”

“Shut this off!” Gallagher jumps up from his seat, trying to grab the phone from Debbie.

“I want to see,” I mutter. “Let me see.” Even I hear the sadness in my tone. Gallagher, for what it’s worth, sits. After that, his attention stays on me instead of the video.