I Pretended to Be a Crazy Cat Lady to Escape My Father's Arranged Marriages

I had never liked Victor Carbone.

Not that I'd met him before that evening.

But there are people whose reputations arrive like perfume, announcing themselves before the person enters the room.

Victor's reputation arrived like smoke from a fire.

You didn't need to see the flames to know something was burning.

He was waiting in a smaller drawing room off the main ballroom, beside a marble fireplace and an enormous portrait of a woman whose expression suggested she'd spent her entire life disapproving of the living.

Victor looked about sixty, with silver hair, a heavy gold watch, and a perfectly tailored charcoal suit.

His smile was polished.

His eyes were not.

“Grace Mercer,” he said, extending a hand. “Finally.”

I gave him the limpest handshake I could manage.

“Hello.”

“Your father tells me you're a remarkable young woman.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

He chuckled.

Charles shot me a warning look.

Victor gestured toward a chair.

“Please, sit.”

I obeyed, deliberately catching my cardigan on the armrest.

The little embroidered cat stretched awkwardly across my chest.

Victor's smile twitched.

I watched him register the glasses, the cardigan, the uncomfortable posture.

He was assessing me.

Excellent.

I wanted him to underestimate me so completely that he forgot I had a functioning brain.

“Your father says you've been reluctant to settle down,” Victor began.

I twisted my fingers together.

“I'm very busy.”

“With?”

“My cats.”

Charles closed his eyes.

Victor glanced at him.

“How many?”

“Twelve.”

“Goodness.”

“Seventeen litter boxes.”

“An ambitious household.”

“I believe every cat deserves emotional independence.”

My father made a strangled sound.

Victor laughed.

But his eyes remained cold.

“I understand you've been introduced to Ethan Romano.”

“Yes.”

“A fine young man.”

“His shoes upset Gerald.”

Victor blinked.

“Gerald?”

“My cat.”

Charles stood abruptly.

“Grace, enough.”

Victor lifted one hand.

“Now, Charles. Let the girl speak.”

The girl.

I was twenty-nine years old, financially independent, and the owner of a business that had advised on more than half a billion dollars in hospitality transactions.

But to Victor Carbone, I was a girl.

He leaned toward me.

“Grace, families like ours survive because we work together. Your father has spent his life building something important.”

I smiled vaguely.

“Hotels?”

“Legacies.”

“That's lovely.”

“Sometimes legacies require difficult decisions.”

My stomach tightened.

There it was.

The pitch.

He continued, “The Romano family is prepared to support an exciting expansion. Your father believes a marriage between you and Ethan would strengthen both families.”

I looked at Charles.

My father was studying the fireplace.

“Does Ethan know about this?” I asked.

Victor smiled.

“Of course.”

Interesting.

Less than an hour earlier, Ethan had fled our dinner table because I described a cat with seasonal melancholy.

Apparently, he was not as involved in the plan as Victor wanted me to believe.

“I don't think Ethan likes me,” I said.

“Men can change their minds.”

“Gerald rarely does.”

Victor's smile thinned.

“You're very attached to these animals.”

“They're family.”

“Well, perhaps it's time to think about your human family.”

He leaned closer.

“Your father has obligations, Grace. Significant ones.”

Charles suddenly spoke.

“Victor.”

But Victor ignored him.

“And sometimes a daughter has an opportunity to help her father.”

I stopped twisting my fingers.

“What kind of help?”

“Nothing complicated. A few signatures when the time comes. Your father will handle the details.”

I looked at my father.

He still wouldn't meet my eyes.

“Signatures?”

Victor waved dismissively.

“Routine approvals. You're almost thirty. It's time to take an interest in the family's future.”

For one terrible moment, I wanted to rip off my glasses and ask him precisely how much of my mother's trust he'd already pledged.

Instead, I widened my eyes.

“Will I need a calculator?”

Charles exhaled sharply.

Victor studied me.

Then he smiled again.

“No, sweetheart. Just a pen.”

A chill traveled down my spine.

I had spent years pretending to be harmless.

I'd never considered that someone might see my harmlessness as an invitation to rob me.

Before Victor could continue, the drawing-room door opened.

Lucas stepped inside.

He didn't knock.

He didn't apologize.

And Victor's expression changed so quickly that I almost missed it.

The smile vanished.

“DeLuca.”

“Carbone.”

The two men regarded each other.

I had seen corporate rivals exchange colder greetings, but never with this much silence.

Lucas glanced at me.

“There you are, Grace.”

Charles frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing serious,” Lucas replied. “I promised Miss Mercer I'd introduce her to my sister.”

Victor folded his hands.

“We're having a private conversation.”

Lucas smiled.

“Then I apologize for interrupting.”

He made no attempt to leave.

Victor's jaw tightened.

Lucas looked at me.

“Shall we?”

I stood immediately.

“Oh, yes. Sofia wanted to hear about Kevin.”

Victor stared.

Lucas didn't miss a beat.

“His seasonal melancholy is concerning.”

I walked past him before anyone could stop me.

As we reached the hallway, Victor called after us.

“Miss Mercer.”

I turned.

His pleasant smile had returned.

“I'm sure we'll speak again.”

Something in his voice made it sound less like a possibility than a threat.

Lucas guided me toward the ballroom without touching me.

We walked in silence until the drawing room disappeared behind us.

Then I whispered, “He wants my signature.”

“I heard.”

“Were you listening?”

“Marco was outside the room. The door wasn't soundproof.”

I stopped walking.

“You had your brother listen?”

“I asked him to keep an eye on Carbone.”

“And me?”

Lucas considered the question.

“Yes.”

I turned on him.

“I don't need a bodyguard.”

“No,” he said calmly. “You need information. But Carbone has a habit of making people disappear when they start asking for it.”

I studied his face.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I'm warning you.”

“There's a difference?”

“There had better be, if we're going to work together.”

I stared at him.

“Who said we're working together?”

“Nobody.”

He paused.

“Yet.”

I should have walked away.

Instead, I asked the question I couldn't shake.

“Why are you involved?”

Lucas looked toward the ballroom.

“Because eighteen months ago, I refused to lend your father money.”

My heart dropped.

“He asked you?”

“He asked me to guarantee a loan secured against assets he didn't fully control. When my attorneys requested the trust documents, he withdrew the proposal.”

“And went to Carbone.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn't you warn me?”

“I didn't know the trust belonged to you. The documents identified a family beneficiary without naming her.”

I looked at him sharply.

“You expect me to believe the great Lucas DeLuca couldn't find out who the beneficiary was?”

“Believe whatever you want.”

His voice hardened.

“But I'm telling you what happened.”

I studied him.

He didn't look embarrassed.

He looked angry with himself.

That made me believe him more than an elaborate explanation would have.

A woman in a navy evening gown approached us.

Sofia DeLuca.

She was thirty-five, with dark hair pulled into an elegant knot and eyes nearly as observant as her brother's.

“Lucas,” she said. “Marco says we have a problem.”

Then she noticed me.

“Grace.”

I smiled weakly.

“Hello.”

Her gaze dropped to my cardigan.

“Is that a cat wearing a crown?”

“Gerald insists on respect.”

Sofia's lips twitched.

“I liked you at dinner.”

“Most people don't.”

“Most people are boring.”

She looked at Lucas again.

“The auction is beginning. Carbone's people just changed the beneficiary language on the redevelopment pledge.”

Lucas's expression darkened.

“What did they change?”

“They removed the restriction requiring the pediatric rehabilitation wing to be completed before funds are released.”

I felt my skin go cold.

“What?”

Sofia turned toward me.

“You know about the project?”

“Enough to know that's dangerous.”

Her expression shifted.

Lucas answered the question she hadn't asked.

“Grace understands the financial structure.”

Sofia glanced at my glasses.

Then back at my face.

“Oh,” she said quietly.

I sighed.

“Please don't.”

To her credit, she didn't laugh.

Instead, she said, “Then we need to talk.”

Ten minutes later, I was seated in a quiet library with Lucas, Sofia, and Marco DeLuca.

Marco was the youngest of the three siblings, thirty-two, broad-shouldered, tattooed, and handsome in a slightly dangerous way.

Unlike Lucas, he smiled easily.

“First,” Marco said, “I need to know whether Kevin is real.”

“No.”

“Gerald?”

“No.”

“Chairman Meow?”

“Also fictional.”

He looked genuinely disappointed.

“So the cats are all lies?”

“The photographs are real. The ownership is fictional.”

Marco leaned back.

“I feel betrayed.”

Sofia elbowed him.

Lucas remained focused on the documents spread across a small table.

He'd obtained the current redevelopment summary, the charitable pledge language, and a heavily redacted trust certificate.

As I read, my chest tightened.

The project had three main components.

A historic luxury hotel renovation.

A connected residential development.

And a new pediatric rehabilitation wing intended to provide specialized treatment for children whose families couldn't afford private facilities.

The charitable component was supposed to be protected.

Instead, the financial structure allowed certain development expenses to be reimbursed before the children's wing was completed.

If costs ballooned, the money could vanish into contractors' accounts while the promised facility remained unfinished.

“Who approved this?” I asked.

Sofia's expression was grim.

“The fund's board approved a different version. This language appeared in the document circulated tonight.”

“That's not legal approval.”

“Exactly.”

Marco pointed to a corporate name.

“North Quay Holdings.”

I recognized it immediately.

“That's connected to North Quay Advisory.”

Lucas nodded.

“Both controlled through entities tied to Victor Carbone.”

I looked at the payment schedule.

Eight point six million dollars.

Nadia's number.

“And the project shows that payment as pediatric equipment procurement,” I said.

Sofia leaned forward.

“Equipment that hasn't arrived.”

I looked up.

“You checked?”

“Three weeks ago. I sit on the fund's compliance committee. I requested confirmation after the vendor failed to provide shipping records.”

“What happened?”

“The treasurer told me the orders were confidential under a purchasing agreement.”

I almost laughed.

“There is no legitimate reason to conceal whether a pediatric rehabilitation center has ordered rehabilitation equipment.”

“That's what I said.”

I searched the attached schedule.

There were no credible manufacturer names.

No delivery dates.

No itemized equipment specifications.

Just broad categories and an enormous payment.

My professional instincts were screaming.

“This isn't an equipment purchase,” I said. “It's a transfer disguised as one.”

Lucas nodded.

“That's our concern.”

“Then freeze the escrow.”

Sofia shook her head.

“We're trying. But the fund's treasurer claims the release was authorized under an agreement approved by the hotel sponsor.”

“My father.”

Nobody answered.

I looked down at the forged authorization again.

My name.

My mother's trust.

My father's signature.

I felt as though I'd discovered a stranger wearing my father's face.

Then I saw something else.

A line buried in the collateral schedule.

BENEFICIAL OWNERSHIP INTEREST: 38%.

I stared.

“Thirty-eight?”

Lucas looked at me.

“What?”

“My father told me the trust held approximately eight percent of Mercer Hospitality Group.”

Sofia leaned closer.

“What does the certificate say?”

I pointed.

“Thirty-eight percent.”

Marco let out a low whistle.

Even Lucas looked surprised.

“That changes things,” he said.

I swallowed.

“Explain.”

Lucas shifted the document toward me.

“Mercer Hospitality has other investors. My family controls fourteen percent. Your father's personal ownership is twenty-two percent.”

I did the math automatically.

“My mother's shares are the largest single block.”

“Yes.”

“And if I receive voting control next month—”

“You become the company's most powerful individual shareholder.”

The room went silent.

For twelve years, I'd believed my inheritance was a minor part of my father's business.

It wasn't.

My mother had left me the largest ownership stake in the company.

And my father had spent more than a decade allowing me to believe otherwise.

I thought about every family dinner where he'd explained how complicated business was.

Every time he'd suggested I should find a husband who understood investments.

Every opportunity he'd dismissed.

Every condescending smile when I mentioned wanting to study finance.

He hadn't simply underestimated me.

He had encouraged me to underestimate myself.

My phone vibrated.

Nadia.

I excused myself and answered immediately.

“Tell me you found something useful.”

“Grace, where are you?”

“At the gala.”

“Are you alone?”

I glanced at three DeLucas watching me.

“Not exactly.”

“Listen carefully. I found the lender's filing.”

My pulse quickened.

“What filing?”

“The redevelopment debt was amended last month. There's a security agreement backed by something called Harbor Trust.”

“I know.”

A pause.

“How do you know?”

“Long story.”

“Grace, your name is on the schedule.”

“I know that, too.”

“No, you don't understand.”

Her voice was shaking.

“The lender has scheduled a collateral verification meeting for next week. It says you personally certified the documents and authorized an in-person identity check.”

I went cold.

“I did no such thing.”

“I figured.”

“Who arranged it?”

“Your father's office.”

I closed my eyes.

“Of course.”

“There's more.”

I gripped the phone.

“What?”

“The closing memorandum references a supplemental payment triggered if you refuse to execute the final acknowledgment.”

I opened my eyes.

“How much?”

“Two and a half million dollars.”

“Payable to whom?”

Nadia hesitated.

“To an entity owned by your father.”

I stared at the dark library windows.

My father had arranged seven marriage meetings.

He'd pressured me to find a husband.

He'd hidden my inheritance.

He'd forged my signature.

And apparently, he'd negotiated a payment connected to whether I cooperated.

“Send me everything,” I whispered.

“Already encrypted and uploaded to our counsel's secure workspace.”

“Good.”

“Grace?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever this is, it's bigger than your father.”

I looked toward Lucas.

“I know.”

After I ended the call, the room felt impossibly quiet.

I told them about the verification meeting.

The supplemental payment.

The lender's filing.

Lucas listened without interrupting.

When I finished, his expression was terrifyingly calm.

“Your father is being paid to deliver your consent,” he said.

I stared at him.

“Like I'm property.”

“Like your consent is the only missing condition in a transaction somebody desperately wants completed.”

Sofia reached across the table and touched my hand.

“Grace, you need independent counsel tonight.”

“I have someone in mind.”

My mother's old attorney.

Lydia Park.

She'd helped prepare Evelyn Mercer's estate documents years earlier.

My father had discouraged me from contacting her.

Now I understood why.

I stood.

“I need to go home.”

Lucas rose immediately.

“I'll arrange a car.”

“I drove myself.”

“Then take your car.”

He paused.

“Have someone you trust follow you.”

I studied him.

“Do you ever give suggestions without making them sound like orders?”

“I'm working on it.”

Despite everything, I nearly smiled.

Marco stood too.

“I can follow at a distance. No interference.”

I hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Fine.”

Lucas handed me a business card.

No title.

No company logo.

Just a telephone number embossed in silver.

“If you find something you can't explain, call.”

I took it.

“Why are you helping me?”

His expression grew distant.

“Because I've seen what Carbone does when people sign papers they don't understand.”

That answer was honest.

But incomplete.

Before I could question him, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen, and something dangerous passed across his face.

“Excuse me.”

He stepped into the hallway.

I gathered my purse.

Sofia watched me quietly.

“You really don't own any cats?”

“No.”

“That's almost disappointing.”

“I've considered adopting one.”

“Make it Gerald.”

“Why?”

“Because any cat that scares Ethan Romano deserves a home.”

For the first time that night, I laughed without worrying who heard.

Then I left.

Forty minutes later, I entered my Chicago apartment, locked the door, and took off the ridiculous cardigan.

My real life waited around me.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Financial textbooks covered in handwritten notes.

A whiteboard filled with hotel acquisition models.

A framed certificate from the University of Chicago.

Everything my father claimed I wasn't capable of understanding.

I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and removed a small cedar box.

It had belonged to my mother.

Inside were photographs, old birthday cards, a silver bracelet, and a sealed envelope she'd given me when I was sixteen.

I'd opened it years earlier.

Back then, I'd been too young to understand why she'd written such strange words.

Tonight, they suddenly seemed important.

I unfolded the letter.

My mother's handwriting filled the page.

My darling Grace,

The world will always have people who want you to believe you're safer when you're smaller.

Don't believe them.

You were never meant to ask permission to become yourself.

And if anyone ever tells you that loving your family means surrendering your future, remember this: love doesn't require a signature obtained through fear.

I sat down slowly.

Twelve years.

For twelve years, I'd carried that letter without truly understanding it.

Then I noticed something I had never paid attention to before.

At the bottom of the page, beneath her signature, my mother had written a short sentence.

If the numbers ever stop making sense, ask Marjorie about the blue book.

The blue book.

I stared at the words.

My mother had been an accountant before she helped build the Mercer hotel business.

She believed numbers told stories.

And apparently, she'd left one story unfinished.

I picked up my phone and searched for Lydia Park's number.