Filthy Beast(86)

Eventually our food comes, which is a really nice distraction from Milo’s monologue. At some point he switched over from yachts to inheritance tax structure, which is always a popular subject with the ultra rich. It doesn’t matter to me, since I won’t inherit much of anything. My parents want to marry me off to someone else that can take care of me.

As I listen to Milo and our dinner finishes up, something important strikes me. Right now, I don’t have anything that’s just mine.

Sure, I have a lot of things. I have clothes and privilege and money and all that, but none of it is actually mine. I didn’t earn any of it. I’ve been given everything, and if my parents have their way, I’ll be given everything for the rest of my life. I see women like that, running charities and having lots of kids, but they never seem fulfilled. Right now, nothing I have is my own, but I want something that’s truly just mine.

The dinner ends and Milo pays, of course, making sure I notice the generous tip he leaves. It’s not impressive, since I know that’s all his family money and he didn’t really earn any of it. We head out and Milo’s driver takes us back to my apartment.

“I had a nice time,” Milo says to me. He slides across the seat, sitting close.

Dread suddenly falls down my throat. “Sure, me too,” I say.

“You know, I wasn’t sure about this match. Your parents can be a little… intense.”

I smile at him. “That’s true.”

“But it is a good match,” he continues. “You’re from good stock and so am I.”

I cringe at that word, “stock,” like we’re freaking animals or something.

“That’s true,” I say, wanting this ride to be over so desperately I can practically taste it.

“You’ve always been different, Sadie. I don’t know what it is, but I thought maybe you were different in a bad way. But now I see that you’re worth my time.”

I cringe again. “Thanks,” I say, looking away from him.

He doesn’t get the hint. He reaches out and takes my chin, turning my head toward him.

Panic sets in, real and true panic. He leans toward me, clearly intending to kiss me, and I don’t know what to do.

I turn my face away from him. He stops, inches away from me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I, uh, I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t kiss on the first date.”

I don’t look at him. This is so awful. I don’t want to kiss this man or have anything to do with him, but I’m forced to be here. In a lot of ways, he is too, but he doesn’t realize it.

“Yes, of course,” he says, moving away. “That’s more proper.” He smiles to himself, creating the lie in his mind and believing it.

Mercifully, the car pulls up in front of my building. He goes to say something, maybe wanting to set up another date, but I don’t give him the chance. I jump out of the car and hurry back inside, not able to stand another second with Milo.

I’m so disgusted with myself and with my parents. They know I’m not interested in him, and I should give in to that sort of thing. I’m not just livestock that they can marry off like that, a pawn in their little political game. My heart is hammering as I ride the elevator up to our apartment.

I storm inside, intending just to hide out in my room until I’m calmer, but a voice stops me short.

“Sadie,” my father calls out from the dining room. “Come in here, please.”

I pause for a second then tentatively head into the room. He’s sitting at the head of the table, reading a complicated document, with a glass of brandy at his elbow. He peers at me over his glasses, a small smile on his face.

“How was the date, dear?” he asks.

I want to yell at him. I want to really lay into him and tell him the truth. I want him to know how all of this makes me feel like less of a person and that he’s doing this to me.

But something stops me short. Sitting on the table next to his brandy is my cellphone.

I could yell at him right now. I’m angry enough to do it. But if I give in to that impulse, I’ll never get my phone back.

And my phone represents my freedom. That’s how I can get in touch with Gavin again. If I really want to see him again, I need to play the game and be smart about this.

“It was nice,” I say, although it practically kills me to do it.

Father doesn’t notice my anger or my discomfort, of course. “Very good,” he says, nodding. “I knew you’d get along well with Milo. He comes from good people, very good people, you’ll be happy with him.”

I want to puke. “I agree,” I say to him.