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That doesn’t matter.

Three words, and there I am.

Not Alice.

Not an artist.

Not a woman with her own heart and soul.

I’m a function. A vessel. A heir-maker. A pawn in Canary Wharf’s sick fucking agenda.

“What did you just say?” I ask, quietly. “Did you actually mean that? For real?”

Dad’s expression softens, which somehow makes it worse.

“I’m not asking you to abandon your life.”

“How generous of you.”

“You can keep the galleries. The studio. The lovely artist pastime. Nobody is taking that away.”

“The lovely artist pastime,” I repeat. “Wow, thank you.”

“Yes. If that’s what makes you happy.”

“If?!”

“But you need to understand the broader picture. Both the Parkers and the Otleys need continuity. Stability. A future beyond me and Trevor.”

My stomach turns.

“No!”

“Alice.”

“No. Not a chance in hell.”

“You haven’t even heard me out.”

“I have. I heard every word.”

He doesn’t fluster.

“A marriage between you and Christopher would make perfect sense.”

“To who? You and Trevor? Did you chat about it on one of your golf jollies?”

“To everyone, not just me and Trevor.”

“Not to me, it doesn’t!”

His eyes harden.

“Don’t be childish, please.”

“I’m being childish? You’re planning my insemination over dessert, Dad. It’s fucking gross.”

Mum gasps. “Alice!”