The Prince's Bride (Part 1) - J.J. McAvoy Page 0,6
Hurry.
Leaning back against the walls, I wished I was anywhere but here...actually, not anywhere. I wished I were at my studio. There was this melody stuck in my head, and I just wanted to play.
“I heard they almost got into a fight in the lobby,” a female voice said, entering the bathroom.
Oh, this was going to be great. Let’s hear what the gossip nymphs are saying today.
“I heard that during the divorce, there was a fight,” another one said.
False, there was no fight. My mom threw papers, but there wasn’t an actual fight.
“What?” the first woman gasped. “What’s the story behind these two?”
Here we go.
“You don’t know?”
“No!”
Why do you sound so shocked? I’m sure you’re dying to gossip and tell her everything. I made a face at the door. Part of me wanted to go out there.
“Oh, right. You’re from the east coast. But you still know about Marvin Wyntor.”
Who doesn’t know of my father?
“Of course, the black Internet entrepreneur who created Etheus, the only real rival to Google?”
Etheus is better... I’m biased, but still.
“Exactly. Marvin Wyntor was a giant of the Silicon Valley. And Etheus always made sure to have the most diverse teams. They said he wanted the best minds from around the world. People loved him, especially black people. But then he married Yvonne Ford. He got a lot of flak for marrying a white woman, especially during those times. I think it eventually got to him. He cheated on her with Wilhelmina Smith.”
Again false. They didn’t cheat. My dad and Yvonne were already separated by then.
“She was a beauty queen, right?”
“One of the first women of African-American descent to receive both the Miss America and Miss USA titles.”
She was the first, actually. They are two separate pageants.
“Wow, she is still gorgeous. She’s a model too, right?”
I’m sure she will be thrilled to know you think she’s pretty after gossiping about her.
“Right, but not pretty enough apparently. Marvin left her to go back to Yvonne.”
So, because my parents divorced, my mom isn’t pretty enough? Have you seen my mother?
“So, that’s where the bad blood came from.”
No, they were born with it. I could feel my whole face cringe at them.
“Yep, and now that he’s dead, they’re fighting over his fortune.”
How long are bathroom breaks here?
“I thought they both signed prenups?”
They did because, apparently, my father knew them both well.
“Yep, but he has two surviving daughters. Augusta—that’s Yvonne’s daughter. And Odette, who’s Wilhelmina’s.”
“So, both daughters get his money.”
Yes, we do.
“Yep, and get this, Yvonne’s daughter is four years younger. Can you imagine being his first wife but getting the second child.”
What difference does it make? A child is a child.
“Do you think he cheated on both of them with each other?”
“Absolutely. I’m sure there are more kids out there, too, somewhere. Rich guys are all like that.”
I would love to get a look at your families. What are your fathers like?
“Wow, men are trash.”
My father wasn’t trash. They never knew him and probably never even heard him speak but felt so free to judge him.
“Right, but he was worth almost fifty billion dollars. I’m sure that’s how he made up for everything. All he had to do was say, “Honey, I’m so sorry. Here’s a diamond ring.’”
“Our dad apologized with real estate, not jewelry. Diamond rings are millionaire-level shit.” I knew that voice. “Odette, are you hiding?”
I stepped out to see two women hunched over the sink, eyes wide and terrified. “No, I was eavesdropping actually, waiting for the perfect time to strike, but you ruined it. What took you so long?”
“My mom was being difficult! Are you two just going to keep staring or what?” She directed the last part of her comments to the women beside us.
I waited for them to leave before moving to the sink. “We’re the talk of Seattle all over again.”
“We always have been. They love us. We’re like modern-day princesses,” she said, stepping up beside me, twirling her light-brown hair with her finger.
We were sisters, but that half really made a difference. While my skin was a warmer brown, hers was a light-brown, almost white. It was the same with our hair color—both were curly, though she straightened hers, and mine was dark brown and curly. Her eyes were like her mother’s, and mine were brown. She was petite while I was tall.
“Different, beautiful, opposite, perfect—”
“No better or worse than each other,” she finished and looked to me. “Dad always said he wasn’t good with words, but he sure knew exactly