I Made His Wife’s Dress Now I’ll Marry Another Chapter 03
That evening, the family’s longtime driver came to pick me up from the hospital.
“The old master says everyone is to be in attendance tonight.”
The Whitmore townhouse stood on East Seventy-Sixth Street, same as always. The black-and-white tile in the foyer was unchanged. Portraits of generations of family matriarchs lined the walls.
My mother’s was not among them.
She had come from a sewing room, and after thirty years of marriage, my grandfather still considered her unfit for display.
Grandfather Henry sat at the head of the table. My father, Charles, was to his left. Sabine and Adrian sat on the right.
My seat had been placed at the far end of the long table.
Grandfather tapped the rim of his glass with a knife. “So you do remember the way back.”
I pulled out my chair. “Mom’s authorization form needed my signature.”
“So in your eyes, that’s all that’s left of this family—paperwork,” my father said coldly. “When you vanished six years ago, the brand nearly missed an entire season. Sabine had to walk the runway pregnant in your place. Adrian pulled a team together overnight to salvage the collection. Do you have any idea how many messes this family had to clean up because of you?”
I almost laughed.
Every pattern from that season had been drafted by me. Even after I left, the archives held the complete master copies. Their so-called salvage operation had amounted to nothing more than ripping my labels off and sewing on someone else’s name.
Grandfather lifted a hand impatiently. “Enough about the past. You understand the cost of your mother’s ongoing treatment. Cross Department Stores is willing to advance next season’s purchasing payment, but on one condition: the relationship between our two families must become even closer.”
A photograph was pushed down the table toward me.
The man in it looked to be in his thirties, his smile polished, a gold Cross Group pin affixed to his lapel.
“Nathan Cross,” Grandfather said. “You met as children. He’s willing to marry you. He’ll visit your mother at the hospital tomorrow.”
“I’m not willing.”
Grandfather’s cane struck the floor. “You think you’re in a position to choose?”
“Marriage isn’t dead stock.”
“Your royalty trust is jointly controlled by your father and me.” He fixed me with a hard stare. “Year-end disbursements require both our signatures. Refuse this, and the account stays frozen. Without that money, how exactly do you plan to pay for private care and the follow-up costs of a paired exchange transplant?”
I looked at Adrian.
His eyes were lowered, his thumb rubbing over his cuff again and again, smoothing a crease that didn’t exist.
“Nathan isn’t a bad man,” he said at last. “Cross’s distribution channels could stabilize Whitmore. They could also ensure your mother receives the best possible post-operative care.”
“In what capacity are you advising me to get married?” I asked. “As my former fiancé? Or as my adopted sister’s husband?”
His hand stilled.
Sabine lowered her head, tears falling onto her napkin.
My father shot to his feet. “Do you have to turn every meal into a trial?”
“At least in a trial the defendant is told the charge,” I said, pushing back my chair. “You’ve all just taken my measurements and prepared to stuff me into another marriage.”
I was halfway to the foyer when Adrian came after me.
“Clara, Nathan can at least protect you.”
“Six years ago, you said you would protect me, too.”
He froze on the front steps.
I looked at the wedding band on his hand. “And the person you protected wore my wedding dress, took my name, and let all of New York believe she had every right to both.”