Page 24 of The Stipulation
Chapter
Eleven
JO
Isit in stunned disbelief in Gavin’s suddenly silent conference room. Sheldon is equally still beside me. The leather of the chair beneath me suddenly feels hot, and the air thick and oppressive to breathe in. Axel’s door slamming exit still echoes in my ears while the stipulations of my father’s burn through my mind on repeat: He and I must both live in my father’s mansion for a year. I am supposed to clean priceless paintings while Axel continues running the business, and both of us must produce heirs, or we forfeit it all. Surely these sorts of unreasonable demands can’t hold up.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but those specifications are something. Was my father actually of sound mind when he wrote this will?”
Gavin nods. “Yes. And if you’re wondering, these terms are perfectly acceptable in the eyes of the law. Your father was no fool. He had a doctor pronounce him to be of sound mentalhealth, and he has a written record of his clean bill of health. As such, he has every right to do as he pleases with his money.”
“But how is it fair that Jo loses out if Axel refuses to do his part?” Sheldon blurts out angrily.
“I said it was legal, not fair,” Gavin says. “Joseph had his reasons, and he was very specific and sure of his actions, but he did not share his thoughts with me.”
My hand drifts to the surface of the table, and the tips of my fingernails tap out a nervous rhythm against the cold glass. I feel a sudden, irresistible urge to stand up, to turn on my heel and to walk out too. Just leave. Go back to the life I had, where the most complicated thing in my week was choosing which cleaning chemical to use on an old master, or what to wear on the weekend. Even the thought of this bizarre will, and the obligations imposed on me by a man I never knew, is suffocating.
But I can’t leave Gavin’s office. Leaving now would feel like admitting defeat even before the game starts, plus I hate to lose. I lean back in my chair, staring at the floor through the tabletop. The highly polished wood reflects the room in distorted fragments, each piece feeling like a jagged reminder of the insanity I’m entangled in.
Gavin finally breaks the harsh silence by standing up. He steps back and clears his throat as he holds out his hand to Sheldon.
“I wish you good luck, Mr. Manswell. If there is anything else we can do for you, please don’t hesitate to call,” he says.
Sheldon rises and shakes Gavin’s hand, then he looks down at me, his expression looking awkward but kind, and he offers me a small, apologetic smile.
“I hope you find some way through this. And whatever you decide, Jo, good luck.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Sheldon.”
I go to stand up, hoping I can get a ride off Sheldon, but Gavin holds out his hand, stilling me.
“Actually, Miss Button, if I may have a moment more of your time?”
He phrases it like a question, but it’s clearly not really something I can say no to. I nod and settle back into the chair.
“Please excuse me for one moment while I show Mr. Manswell out,” Gavin says.
I nod again. I could certainly use a few minutes alone. As soon as Gavin leaves the conference room, I bend down and snatch my purse up from the ground beside my chair. I scramble through my stuff and snatch my cell phone out. With shaking fingers, I scroll to our group chat and start a call, hoping at least one of them is about to pick up. Jenny answers first. Then Serena. And Olivia half a second later. I guess they were all waiting for news,
“Jo, are you ok? How did it go?” Jenny asks, her voice shrill with concern.
I run a stunned hand over my face. “You won’t believe what’s happened … you have to hear this.”
I recount everything from the will reading as quickly as I can: the stipulation of staying here for a year, restoring the paintings, the pregnancy clause, and the fact that Axel and I both have to follow all of the rules for either of us to get anything. My voice trembles. Jenny exhales sharply.
“Oh, my God. Wow,” Serena gasps.
“Do you know anyone who could … you know … help with the pregnancy part? I mean I could ask around for you. A few of our friends have used donors,” Olivia says.
“Absolutely not,” I snap, more sharply than I mean to. “I am not having a child with some random donor or stranger. I’m not going to play some twisted game to satisfy my father’s ego orallow him to manipulate me for money. I won’t do it. I just won’t do it.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Olivia asks softly.
I stare out the window, at the skyline of downtown New York, at the sunlight glinting off the glass towers, at the impossibility of this life.
“I’m going to walk away. I’ll just come home, back to the UK, back to my life. My old life was fine. Comfortable. Safe. Real. Maybe my mum was right, maybe she was protecting me from a sadist. Who else would make people dance like puppets to get an inheritance?”
Jenny’s voice softens, but she can’t mask her curiosity. “But the money … the paintings… the whole thing. Aren’t you at least tempted?”
