Page 22 of The Illusion
We sit. Asher pulls out my chair, but his movements are stiff. He's different around his father. Quieter for sure. Smaller, somehow.
A waiter appears with a bottle of red wine. Asher doesn't love red, and I’m not a huge fan either. Neither of us says a word. Dean tastes it, nods his approval, and the waiter pours for all of us before disappearing.
"So," Dean says, leaning back in his chair. "You’re engaged to my son."
"I am." I smile, hoping it doesn’t betray my nerves.
“And he makes you happy? He’s a good partner?”
What an odd question. I feel Asher still beside me, like his body has turned into stone. “He does and he is,” I assure Dean. “He’s wonderful. I’m a very lucky girl to have found someone so incredible.”
Dean snickers like I’ve just said something hilarious. No wonder Asher doesn’t speak all that highly of him.
"Show me the ring."
It’s an instruction, not a request. My hand is tucked in my lap because I have a habit of hiding the ring. It’s a lot and I hate it, but I love the man who gave it to me, so it is what it is. As I lift my hand and hold it toward him, I wonder if Dean will say something about how ugly it is.
He takes my hand without asking. He turns my hand beneath the light and studies the diamond for several silent seconds. Then he releases me. "Serviceable."
My stomach drops.Serviceable?
"It should be bigger, but I guess it will do." He glances at Asher. "You failed to mention that you went the practical route."
Oh. Wow. Not gaudy, then. Practical. Fucking practical. My flabbers are gasted. If this ring were any bigger, NASA would be tracking it. Somewhere, other billionaires are trying to acquire land rights. It's too fucking big on its best day. Serviceable and practical are not how any reasonable person would describe it.
"I think it's lovely," I lie. Seriously, I hate this thing with my whole heart, but what else am I supposed to do? He’s just made it sound like Asher gave me a crackerjack box ring, and he doesn't deserve that. Dean's gaze shifts back to my face as I drop my hand into my lap.
"Yes, I can see that you favor a classic style. Refined. Your dress is demure. Vintage, I believe?"
Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised that he knows women’s fashion, but I am. "Yes," I say. "Calvin Klein. From the nineties."
"Ah." He picks up his wine glass. "Thrift store find?"
He says it as though a thrift store is a conveyor belt from a landfill. "Estate sale, actually," I say, keeping my voice even.
“Much better. How resourceful." He takes a sip of wine. "So you run a little store with your sister. Bath products."
Little store. He makes it sound like a lemonade stand. Asshole. "Yes. We make high-quality, handcrafted bath and body products and have recently started adding home scents into our line."
"Fascinating." Another word that sounds like an insult. "It must be nice to have a hobby."
Hobby. Not a business. Not a career. A hobby. I feel Asher's hand find mine under the table. He squeezes, but he doesn't say anything. Doesn't correct his father. Doesn't defend me.
"We’re very lucky to be building something the way we are," I say. "We've been growing steadily since we opened two years ago."
"Of course." Dean sets down his wine glass. "Let’s discuss wedding plans. You’ll need to have this locked up in the next six months, obviously."
"Actually, Father," Asher says, "I talked Julie into something faster. We’re thinking maybe two months."
Dean's eyebrows rise. "Two months?"
"I don't want to wait," Asher says.
"But you have until..." Dean's voice trails off as his gaze shifts to me. Any pretense of warmth disappears as his eyes narrow. "You're not pregnant, are you?"
The question is so blunt, so invasive, that for a moment I can't respond. "No," I finally manage. "I'm not."
"Thank God." Dean picks up his menu, already moving on. "Teenage pregnancy is one thing because hormones and poor impulse control make mistakes understandable. But adult pregnancy before marriage? It would be inexcusable in a family like ours."
