“One week.”
Of course I would be delivered this horrible news on the anniversary of my mother’s death. It seems fitting almost. Tragedy upon tragedy. That’s what my entire life has been composed of.
“Will you sign the papers?” he asks impatiently.
“Do I have a choice?”
He doesn’t even hesitate when he tells me, “No.”
“Then I’ll sign.”
I’ll marry Verona Moretti. I’ll follow the terms of the will so that my family isn’t destitute and out on the streets with nothing. But there’s nothing saying I can’t take my anger and frustration out on my new bride to be, that I won’t treat her like my own little plaything. She will be my wife in name only. And I’m going to make her regret signing the contract. I’m going to make her life a living hell.