Chapter 4 Family Banquet, A Public Humiliation

# Chapter 4: Family Banquet, A Public Humiliation

Two months into our marriage, Gilbert and I had reached an unexpected equilibrium. We weren't exactly conventional—what couple begins with a 200-page contract?—but we'd found something that worked for us. Gilbert was still Gilbert, of course—methodical, precise, and often frustratingly cryptic—but now I understood the warmth that lived beneath the surface.

The nights we spent together were passionate, but it was the quiet moments that surprised me most: Gilbert absentmindedly playing with my hair while reading financial reports, or the way he'd press a coffee mug into my hands each morning without comment, exactly how I liked it.

I was falling for my contract husband, a plot twist I hadn't seen coming.

But reality has a way of intruding on even the most unexpected romances. In our case, reality arrived in the form of an invitation to the annual Parkinson family gathering—a formal dinner my parents hosted every year to showcase the family's continued prosperity.

"We don't have to go," I told Gilbert, curled against his side in bed. "My family is... difficult."

Gilbert's fingers continued their gentle path through my hair. "We're going."

"You don't understand. They're going to be awful. They still think I married you out of desperation."

"Didn't you?" His tone was light, teasing.

I jabbed his ribs with my finger. "Don't be smug. It's not attractive."

"Evidence suggests otherwise," he replied, capturing my hand and bringing it to his lips.

I sighed, melting despite myself. "They're going to say terrible things. About me, about you, about our marriage."

Gilbert's expression turned serious. "Let them try."

---

The Parkinson estate looked exactly as I remembered: imposing, traditional, dripping with old money pretensions my father could no longer afford. As our car pulled through the gates, I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach.

"Remember," I whispered to Gilbert as we approached the front door, "my father will try to intimidate you, my mother will passive-aggressively insult me, and my cousin Richard will make at least one inappropriate comment about our marriage."

Gilbert squeezed my hand. "I've negotiated with warlords and dictators, Kate. I think I can handle your family."

I wasn't so sure.

The evening started predictably enough. My mother's kiss was as cold as her eyes when she welcomed us. My father shook Gilbert's hand with unnecessary force. Cousins, aunts, and uncles circled with predatory interest, whispering behind crystal champagne flutes.

Dinner was an exercise in polite warfare. My mother expertly slipped barbs into seemingly innocent questions: "Kate, darling, you look... rested. Marriage must be less demanding than actual work."

My father focused his attention on Gilbert: "So, Blackwood, now that you've acquired our company's most valuable asset," he glanced meaningfully at me, "what's your long-term strategy?"

I clenched my fork so hard my knuckles turned white. Gilbert, however, remained unruffled, answering questions with diplomatic precision that revealed nothing.

The breaking point came during dessert when my cousin Richard, already several drinks in, decided to share his thoughts.

"We all know why this marriage happened," he announced to the table at large, his voice carrying in the suddenly quiet dining room. "Poor little Kate had to sell herself to save Daddy's company. Very noble, very... traditional." His smirk made my skin crawl. "Tell me, Gilbert, was she worth the price tag?"

My mother gasped. My father looked torn between embarrassment and agreement. I wanted the floor to swallow me whole.

Gilbert calmly set down his napkin. Without a word, he stood and walked over to the antique sideboard where my father kept his prized whiskey collection. He poured himself a glass, took a deliberate sip, then turned to face the room.

"I've been quite patient this evening," he said, his voice soft but carrying. "I've endured your thinly veiled insults and your contempt for the woman I married. That ends now."

The silence in the room was absolute. I'd never seen this version of Gilbert—cold fury radiating from him in waves, his usual control still present but now weaponized.

"Perhaps you'd be interested in seeing why I married Kate," he continued, pulling out his phone. He tapped the screen a few times, then nodded to the butler who stood by the wall. The man hurried over, took the phone, and connected it to the dining room's display system.

The large screen on the wall flickered to life, showing a video of a young girl, perhaps five years old, playing a simple melody on a piano. The footage was grainy, clearly old.

"What is this?" my father demanded.

Gilbert ignored him, his eyes finding mine across the room. "I was eight when I first saw Kate Parkinson. My father had brought me to one of your company galas."

On screen, the little girl—me, I realized with a start—finished her piece to polite applause. My heart pounded as childhood memories flooded back. I remembered that night, remembered being terrified to perform for my father's business associates.

"I watched this little girl play with such concentration," Gilbert continued. "And afterward, when everyone else had moved on, I saw her return to the piano alone to practice the parts she'd gotten wrong. No audience, no praise—just determination."

The video changed to another clip—me at perhaps seven or eight, playing a more complex piece.

"I told my father that day that I would marry the piano girl when I grew up." Gilbert's smile was small but genuine. "He laughed, of course. But I was very serious."

My throat tightened with emotion. I'd never heard this story before.

"Over the years, I collected these videos from various sources. Your family events, school recitals, charity functions." Each clip showed me at different ages, always at the piano. "I watched Kate grow up from a distance, admired her intelligence, her resilience."

The final clip wasn't of me playing piano. Instead, it showed me from just last week, sitting at our dining table with financial reports spread around me, brow furrowed in concentration as I worked through Parkinson Enterprises' accounts.

"This is the woman I married," Gilbert said, his voice firm. "Brilliant, determined, and worth far more than any of you have ever recognized."

My cousin Richard snorted. "Very romantic, Blackwood. But we all know this was a business transaction. There's a contract."

"Indeed there is," Gilbert agreed smoothly. The video changed again—this time showing me, clearly tipsy, signing our marriage contract. But instead of a signature, I'd drawn... a little pig?

I gasped, mortified. I had absolutely no memory of doing that.

"Kate was... celebrating a bit too enthusiastically the night we finalized our agreement," Gilbert explained, a hint of amusement in his voice. "This is her official signature on our contract."

The room erupted in shocked laughter. My mother looked horrified. My father's face turned purple.

"You're telling me," my father sputtered, "that the contract binding our companies is signed with a... a cartoon pig?"

"It is," Gilbert confirmed. "And I keep this copy in my personal safe. Because while the legal team has the proper version, this one reminds me why I married Kate—she's unpredictable, authentic, and makes even business dealings interesting."

He turned off the display and returned to his seat beside me. Under the table, he squeezed my hand.

"So you see," he concluded, addressing my cousin directly, "the question isn't whether Kate was worth the price. The question is whether I'll ever be worthy of her."

For once in my life, my family was speechless. The remainder of the evening passed in subdued conversation, with several relatives making awkward attempts to engage me more respectfully.

---

Later that night, as we drove back to the city, I finally found my voice.

"You never told me any of that," I said. "About seeing me play piano as a child."

Gilbert kept his eyes on the road. "Would you have believed me?"

"Probably not," I admitted. "But those videos... you've been collecting them for years."

"I have excellent researchers."

"That's borderline stalkerish, you know."

A smile tugged at his lips. "I prefer 'thorough.'"

I shook my head, still processing everything. "And the pig drawing? I don't remember doing that at all."

"You were quite proud of it at the time. Said it captured my essence."

I buried my face in my hands, mortified yet somehow charmed. "And you kept it in your safe."

"It's one of my most valuable possessions."

As we pulled up to our building, a thought struck me. "That piano I saw in the storage room last week—is that..."

Gilbert's expression softened. "Your first piano. Yes. I tracked it down through an estate sale three years ago."

"You bought my childhood piano? Before we even met officially?"

"I paid three hundred thousand for it," he said matter-of-factly. "A bargain, considering its significance."

I stared at him, this impossible man who had apparently been planning to marry me long before I knew he existed. "I want to see it."

---

The storage room was climate-controlled, filled with carefully preserved furniture and art. In the center stood my old piano—the one my grandmother had taught me on, the one my father had sold when I was twelve because he needed the money but told me I'd "outgrown it."

I approached it slowly, running my fingers over the familiar wood. "I can't believe you found it."

Gilbert stood back, watching me with an intensity I'd come to recognize. "It needs tuning."

Without thinking, I sat down and lifted the cover. The keys were exactly as I remembered. I played a simple melody—the first one I'd ever learned. The notes were slightly off, but the memory was perfect.

"Why?" I asked, looking up at Gilbert. "Why go to all this trouble?"

He moved closer, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. "I'm not good at... this. Emotions. Relationships. But I'm very good at planning. And I've been planning you for a long time, Kate."

"That's either the most romantic or most disturbing thing anyone has ever said to me."

His laugh was soft. "Perhaps a bit of both."

I stood up abruptly and kissed him, pouring all my confusion and gratitude and growing feelings into it. When we broke apart, I made a decision.

Taking a decorative hammer from a nearby shelf display, I turned back to the piano.

"Kate, what are you—"

With one swift movement, I brought the hammer down on the piano, splintering the wood of the lid.

"Are you insane?" Gilbert grabbed my wrist before I could strike again. "That's a priceless—"

"It's my piano," I reminded him. "And I want to see what's inside."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. He released my wrist and stepped back.

I continued my assault until the lid cracked open completely. Inside, nestled among the strings and hammers, was a small velvet box.

My hands trembled as I reached for it. Inside was a vintage diamond ring, elegant and understated.

"It was my grandmother's," Gilbert said quietly. "I had it sized for you last year."

"Before we met," I whispered.

"Before we officially met," he corrected.

I looked from the ring to the shattered piano to the man standing before me—my contract husband who had apparently been planning our life together for years.

"There's a note," Gilbert nodded toward the box.

I unfolded the small paper tucked beside the ring: "Clause 102: Breaking the piano constitutes a formal proposal of permanent partnership, superseding all previous contractual agreements."

Tears and laughter fought for dominance as I looked up at him. "You really do have a clause for everything, don't you?"

Gilbert took the ring from the box and slid it onto my finger. "I told you, I'm thorough."

"And completely insane."

"Only about you." He pulled me close, his lips brushing mine. "Is that a yes?"

I wrapped my arms around his neck. "I should read the fine print first."

"Take your time," he murmured against my lips. "We have the rest of our lives."