Oscar Howard

At the annual meeting of the Sanders family trust, my ex-fiancé, Chad, erupted. He kicked the door open and roared, “Molly, if you dare marry my father, I’ll ruin you!” He seemed to have forgotten that this was all his idea. Just before our wedding, he’d made a bet to amuse his new lover, Lillian. He’d made me the stakes. He bet her that I would marry his bedridden, elderly father for money. He was just waiting to watch me become a laughingstock. But he never imagined I’d overheard his entire phone call with her. And he certainly never imagined I would play along. When he shoved the prenuptial agreement in front of me, his face was alight with the thrill of the spectacle he’d orchestrated. I said nothing. I just signed my name. Overnight, I went from his fiancée to his stepmother. And the family trust that had bankrolled his entire life was now under my joint control, with William. Looking at his stunned, furious face, I allowed myself a small smile. “You want your inheritance? Then learn some manners. Call me Stepmother.” ... “Molly, are you sure about this? That prenup… William Sanders has been sick for years. Everyone knows he’s not all there.” My mother’s eyes were red, her voice trembling with shock. When the Sanders family sent over the engagement gifts, she had been the happiest person in the world. She had watched me turn down a partnership at Skidmore, Owings & Merrill to marry Chad, watched me pour the seven most critical years of an architect’s career into restoring that nearly derelict Charleston estate. She’d been so proud. Through her professional connections, she helped my restoration project gain the support of historical preservation societies. “Molly,” she’d told me that day, “you’re going to be the finest mistress the Sanders family has ever had.” But now Chad, the man I thought I would spend my life with, had put this agreement in front of me for the sake of a bet. All I felt was a bone-deep exhaustion. “It’s fine, Mom.” I glanced at the documents on the table. “Either way,” I said softly, “I’m still marrying into the Sanders family.” I couldn’t let myself be trapped here a moment longer. This was the tenth time Chad had derailed my project at a critical juncture because of some messy personal drama. The first time, the old guard of Charleston society still defended me, saying he didn’t appreciate what he had. The second time, they started to wonder if something was wrong between us. After that, the whispers turned on me. Some said I was just a social climber, desperate to marry into an old-money family. Others said I was only in it for the money, which was why Chad would never commit. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about leaving. But my name had become synonymous with the Sanders estate. In the eyes of the industry, I was no longer Molly Bennett, the architect. I was “Chad’s woman,” a pretty ornament living off the Sanders name. “Molly,” a senior architect who once tried to recruit me told me bluntly, “everyone knows you and Chad Sanders are too entangled. Who would take that risk? Your career is tied to the Sanders family now, for better or worse.” My work, my life—it was all stuck here. My hand finally hovered over the groom’s name on the document. William Sanders. In that moment, I knew I had nothing left to hope for from Chad. Fine. I would be Mrs. Sanders. Only this time, I would be the one in charge—not the fiancée-in-waiting who could be discarded at any moment.The family lawyer’s call came as if on cue. He informed me that Mr. William’s representatives had consented to the marriage and that William, in his own name, was granting me a portion of his voting rights in the trust as an engagement gift. The lawyer added, with dry precision, “A privilege, I might add, that Mr. Sanders, the younger, has yet to earn.” After I hung up, I stared out at the sprawling magnolia tree that shade......