I I do, Ila croked out, and a piece of her soul died right there. You may kiss the bride, the preacher announced, sounding like he pied her. The old man leaned in, his breath smelling like ancient cheese. And Ila closed her eyes tight, praying for strength. His lips touched hers, dry, cracked, cold as a corpse. And Ila’s stomach lurched. This is my life now, she thought. Married to Frankenstein’s grandpa. But how did a smart, ambitious 22-year-old woman from Atlanta end up at the altar with a man who looked like death’s ugly cousin? Two weeks earlier, Ila was living her best broke life in a tiny Atlanta apartment with her mom, Patricia.
Money was tighter than a lid on a pickle jar. Patricia worked as a nurse’s aid at a nursing home, pulling double shifts just to keep the lights on. Ila had just graduated from community college with a graphic design degree and was freelancing for peanuts while job hunting. They were struggling, sure, but they were happy. Then Richard Williams, Ila’s deadbeat dad who’d been MIA for 20 years, showed up like a bad penny. “Layla, baby girl,” Richard announced, walking into their apartment like he owned the place.
“Your daddy’s here to save the day.” Ila looked up from her laptop where she was designing a logo for a client, paying her in exposure and prayers. “Who are you?” Ila asked, genuinely confused. “It’s me, Richard, your father.” Ila blinked. My father died in a fishing accident when I was two. My mom told me. Your mom lied, sweetie, Richard said with a grin that made Ila’s skin crawl. I’ve been in Miami this whole time building my empire, but now I’m back and I’ve got an opportunity for you.
Patricia came rushing out of her bedroom. Richard, what are you doing here? Trish, looking good, baby. Richard said winking. Get out, Patricia said firmly. Now, now hear me out, Richard said, plopping down on their worn couch. I’ve arranged a marriage for our daughter. Very lucrative, very prestigious. Ila’s jaw dropped. Excuse me, what? There’s this man, Don Barrett. Very wealthy, very successful, Richard explained like he was describing a car. He needs a wife for reasons. Legal stuff, inheritance, boring details.
Point is, he’s willing to pay handsomely for the right girl. And you, my dear daughter, are that girl? Absolutely not, Ila said immediately. I’m not marrying some random man for money. What is this? The 1800s baby girl? He’s offering $250,000. Richard said cash. Plus, you’ll live in his mansion. Want for nothing? And when he dies, which should be soon, he’s ancient. You’ll inherit everything. Patricia’s eyes widened. $250,000 would pay off her medical debt, their credit cards, their car loan, everything.
No, Patricia said firmly, despite the temptation. I won’t sell my daughter. You’re not selling her, Richard protested. You’re facilitating a mutually beneficial arrangement. Look, the man’s old and ugly. Not going to lie, he’s basically a walking nightmare, but he’s also loaded and dying. Ila plays housewife for a year or two and boom, she’s set for life. Get out of my house, Ila said, standing up. I’m not doing it. Richard’s smile disappeared. Trish, how much do you owe in medical bills?
50 grand? 60? Patricia’s face went pale. How did you? Patricia started. I did my research, Richard said smoothly. I know you’re drowning in debt. I know you’re working yourself to death. I know Ila can barely find work, but I’m offering you a lifeline here. Take it. Ila looked at her mom. Really looked at her and saw the exhaustion, the worry lines, the gray hairs that weren’t there last year. Her mom was killing herself to keep them afloat.
I’ll do it, Ila heard herself say. Ila, no, Patricia protested. Mom, it’s okay. Ila said, her mind already spinning. It’s just temporary, right? Some old guy needs a wife for legal reasons. I’ll live in a nice house for a while. We’ll get the money and then we’ll figure it out. It sounded logical when she said it out loud. It sounded less logical when she met her future husband. The wedding was held in a tiny chapel with maybe 15 people total.
