Page 9 of On Cloud Nine

In the distance is a signature On Cloud Nine pool in pristine condition, lined with blue and white tiles. My dad let me pick them out in a small shop in Porto. It’s always been special to me that he used those exact tiles at the resort he opened in Portugal.

I rarely make decisions about our family’s hospitality dynasty, but sometimes, when Dad is around, I get to suggest a color for curtains or an activity for the daily agenda.

My mother always insisted on keeping me away from the resorts. Despite the fact that I grew up around the business, she thinks I’d become too overwhelmed or a workaholic like my father.

According to her, I’m better positioned as a well-behaved socialite, working asimplejob.

Resentment prickles in my chest. My role at the Oceanic Research Organization has never been easy, but my parents only see what they want to see.

I spot my mother beneath her umbrella, afternoon tea set up at the four-seat table she’s occupying.

She’s wearing an impeccable black dress, heirloom pearls hanging in their place around her neck. Her beige Chanel ballet flats match the embroidered cashmere cardigan on her shoulders as she scans the pages of a large binder behind her oval Bottega sunglasses.

Probably a schedule for one of the many autumn socials she’s planning.

My father sits beside her in a pair of wiry glasses and a collared shirt, typing away on his phone.

They seem oblivious to each other’s presence. There are no secret glances across the table, no tender touches exchanged as they work together.

The way it’s always been between them.

Hollow and bland. Automated. As if they’ve been programmed into stiff movement.

Well, almost always.

I cling to the years when we were a happy family—at least, what our types of families may define as happy. Things shifted once my dad took over the On Cloud Nine resort with my Uncle Davis.

My life would mirror theirs if I married Lance. Saying yes to the Bradburys—even for an opportunity to expand our resorts to Australia—means choosing a life where I become an empty husk of myself.

Lance and I would buy the biggest mansion Westchester has to offer so we’d never run into each other. At parties, we’d pretend we were in love, and then every night he’d have a mistress around to keep his bed warm. Yes, my parents and Lance would be happy, but I don’t want to spend my life on country club autopilot, pretending to be a cookie-cutter wife.

My parents don’t notice I’m here. I clear my throat, not wanting to interrupt either of their focuses.

“Hello.” I smile.

“You’re late,” my mother says without taking her eyes off the materials in front of her.

I look down at my JLC Reverso Duetto watch. One minute past three o’clock and already starting off on the wrong foot.

“I couldn’t help but admire your Itoh peonies,” I lie. She doesn’t seem flattered by the phony compliment. I approach my parents, taking a seat on the cushioned chair opposite them.

Dad looks up from his phone and gives me a curt nod.

We sit in silence. I wish they could act even remotely content to see their only daughter. Just once. If I didn’t speak, I’m sure they would spend hours not acknowledging me.

It’s lonely, like it’s always been.

A blaring reminder as to why I can’t live this way anymore. A pretty bird in a gilded cage. Primed and groomed for the highest bidder.

I fumble with the fabric of my white Altuzarra trousers, the ones my mom sent to the townhouse last month. Nausea hits my gut. I love my mother, but navigating her is like walking through an open minefield.

There’s no more delaying my inevitable plea. Things need to change. I understand that now.

“Mother, Father.” My voice shakes.

“Speak up, Molly. We don’t have all day,” she says.

“As we discussed yesterday, I’m not marrying Lance,” I blurt out.

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