Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  I scroll down some. There’s a snapshot of his mom, taken earlier last year. Margot Blackwood is a beautiful blonde, her chin angled in a proud tilt. Her skin is smoother than some of my college friends’, and she’s slim and fashionable. There’s nothing about her that says she’s a mother to three fully grown adult men. But something about the shot is…slightly off-putting.

  I bite the tip of my left thumb, wondering why. I’ve never even met the woman, and you don’t know how much of what the “news” is saying is real. And her mouth is curved in a small smile. Then I finally lock in on the steady coldness in her gaze. That’s what it is.

  An article with a particularly lurid headline about the family pops up next. Coincidentally enough, it has Tom’s byline on it. My lip curls in distaste. Just like him to sniff around someone else’s misfortune. I click on it out of morbid curiosity, then roll my eyes at the ridiculously sensational lead. Killer matriarch—really?

  I close the browser and get ready for the morning meeting. I have this new financial product I want to propose to expand our private wealth management client base. Even if we don’t implement it immediately, I want to be recognized for thinking big about our future and growth. It’s my attempt at getting some bonus points before the promotion decision is made.

  Excitement lightens my steps as I go toward the conference room.

  Rodney, a fellow analyst, falls into step with me. “Hey,” he says with a bright smile.

  “Hey.” I smile back at him.

  He started a year after me and got promoted last year. But it’s impossible to be upset about that. He’s one of the nicest and most genuine guys at the firm. His large, square glasses sit on a sharp Roman nose. Dork potential is high with those specs, but actually they balance out his narrow face. His brown eyes are always so earnest, and I swear clients love that about him.

  A lot of women at the firm love that about him, too. Unfortunately, he’s taken. After his promotion, he found the man of his destiny. From what I understand, they’re head over heels about each other.

  “I heard that Curie almost got kidnapped at her wedding. Is she okay?” he asks.

  I cringe, wishing I could teleport to a place where people don’t gossip. Like Mars. Hard to talk without air. “You heard that already?”

  “Everyone probably has. She’s the big boss’s daughter.” He scratches the tip of his nose. “I mean, you are too, but you know what I mean.”

  Yeah, I do. I was hoping the crappy market movements would be the main topic around the water cooler, but an almost-kidnapped bride is so much more interesting, especially when she’s the founder and managing director’s daughter. Maybe I should’ve just called in sick today. Or became an astronaut. “It was just a case of mistaken identity.”

  “So, the guy wasn’t a psycho or anything?”

  “Nope.” Just a super-rich guy with no sense of proportion , who my dad seems to like for some bizarre reason.

  Rodney and I enter the meeting. Every market team has one on Monday, and all the members covering Asia are already seated around a long table. I take an empty seat, and Rodney sits next to me. The meeting follows the agenda, like always.

  Dad doesn’t say much, but he almost never does. One of the VPs explains that although many markets dropped, we still made a significant profit off our short positions, which doesn’t surprise me. This is why clients pay us the big bucks.

  I jot down some notes from the projections. They seem solid, albeit a bit conservative. But some of our clients loathe losing money more than they love making it. Totally risk-adverse.

  Toward the end, we have the time to bring up any ideas or suggestions. So I do.

  “Right now, people are jittery and nervous about the unpredictable ups and downs, even though they’re very interested in growing their money,” I say. If I pass this stage, I’ll have to make a formal presentation. “I think it’ll be great if we can start a new product catered specifically to the upper middle class, which we haven’t been serving. We can brand it as ‘wealth building for the middle class.’”

  “We only deal with people with real money,” one of the VPs says, sounding bored and slumberous. Dad nods almost imperceptibly.

  I expected this. If Dad didn’t feel this way, he would’ve already started something similar. Undeterred, I continue, “Middle class doesn’t mean people with no money. They’re people with some savings. These days, even households that routinely make high six figures or more feel like they’re middle class.”

  Many of the VPs start to close their leather folios, their movements crushing the fluttery excitement inside me. I glance at Dad, praying he sees the merit in my idea. But he taps his fingers twice on the legal pad in front of him, then shuts his.

  I bite my lip. I didn’t presume he’d be all over it immediately, but I thought he’d give it more consideration than a couple of finger taps.

  “Anybody else have anything to say?” he asks, his palms on the table.

  “I think Pascal’s idea has merit,” Rodney says.

  Thank you.

  “Even under her proposed financial products, the type of people who feel comfortable walking in here and opening an account are going to have some significant assets. It’s a great way to increase our clients. And I like the branding she proposed. ‘Wealth building for the middle class’ is very welcoming and enticing.”

  “That’s a good point, Rodney.” It’s the same VP who shut me down only seconds ago. “Catchy, too. Good job.”

  What the hell? A bitter knot clogs my throat, making it impossible to speak.

  “It’s really Pascal’s idea,” Rodney says.

  “Great thinking, Rodney,” Dad says, as though he didn’t hear Rodney attribute it to me. “Outside the box.”

  The words are like hard slaps. They’re what I wanted to hear from him for my idea. My hands start shaking, and I clench them so people can’t see my reaction and pity me. You can’t work at SFG if people start pitying you.

  “Appreciate your bringing it up. Now if that’s all…” Dad stands.

  And just like that, the meeting ends. Everyone follows my dad out, little specks of iron trailing the giant magnet.

  Except me. I stay in my seat. I don’t think I can walk.

  Rodney is leaving, but he turns back and sits next to me in the otherwise empty room.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I shake my head, suddenly drained. “Wasn’t your fault. You tried to help.” I attempt to give him a smile, but my cheeks are like rubber. “I appreciate it.”

  “But I feel terrible…like I took credit for your idea. I don’t understand why they didn’t take you seriously.”

  Even though he says he doesn’t understand, his eyes show a glimmer of understanding.

  I’m a woman. Somehow the fact that I have a vagina makes everything out of my mouth not worth paying attention to, according to some jerks. When the same words come out of someone else’s—a man’s—they’re worthy of notice.

  I expect that from some of our subtly sexist VPs…maybe. But my own father?

  That’s an unexpected blow.

  Rodney pats my shoulder. “You know, one day they’re going to realize what an amazing analyst you are.”

  “Thanks,” I say, although I’m not sure if that day will ever come. I hate feeling this negative, but right now, I don’t have a whole lot of positivity left.

  “That model you created made everything more efficient, too. They should recognize that.”

  “Hopefully.”

  I worked my ass off on the model because I knew it’d make a difference. Nobody from management has said anything. I’ve been hiding my disappointment because I don’t want people to think I’m starved for praise. I’m just hoping they see the contribution I made despite their silence.

  But given how the meeting went today…

  “Or maybe not…” I tap my mouth with the end of my pen.

  The tone Dad used earlier in his office comes back to me. The way
he pointedly mentioned my advancing in life and Court. Does Dad think the work I do needs a bigger impact? Greater than the model or a possible new product line?

  “Do you think my dad wants me to bring in an account?”

  “What do you mean?” Shock twists Rodney’s face. “Bringing in a new account is a VP job. A junior analyst would never be expected to do that.”

  But Dad brought up Court. In that tone. “There’s this guy…” I start.

  “Yeah?”

  “I met him, and we became sort of…um…friendly.” Rodney doesn’t need to know the details of just how friendly we became. I tell him about Dad’s reaction—how I should get to know Court.

  When I’m done, Rodney looks at me like I’ve turned into a Vulcan, minus the logic. “So you think your dad brought it up because he wants you to bring this guy in as a client?”

  “Maybe…? He’s taking control of a trust worth more than a billion dollars. He’s going to need someone to manage his money, right?” I say, even though part of me wonders if I’m insane to even think it. Court probably already has people taking care of his money. And isn’t it awkward and ridiculous to ask him to move his account here just because we slept together once, especially after I made a big deal about not associating with him anymore?

  “Well… If you can swing it, that’ll definitely get you noticed. You might end up working for the VP managing his account, too.”

  Right. And the devil on my shoulder says I should go for it. If I get passed over again this year, I’m done at SFG.

  Rodney continues, “But if that’s what it takes to earn you the recognition you deserve, I think it’s really unfair. You’ve already proven yourself. I don’t understand why you keep getting overlooked.”

  “Thank you.” The annoyance behind his words soothes the anger inside me.

  It doesn’t do any good to stay irritated at the circumstances I’m in…or the fact that I’m not taken seriously because of my gender. I need to figure out what I’m going to do to get noticed by the people who determine my fate at the firm. And I need to consider what Dad might’ve meant when he brought Court up the way he did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Court

  The next morning, Nate and I are at Éternité, a fancy French fusion restaurant, for brunch. I’ve mooched off him from time to time, and joked that I’d treat him if I ever became rich, which is about to happen in a couple of days.

  Besides, he lent me his jet. I owe him this mimosa brunch, even if it does have a price tag that would make most financially sensible people clutch their pearls in horror. The restaurant is worth the cost, though. The décor is elegant and light, the food is prepared perfectly and the service is impeccable.

  And while we’re waiting for our food and drink, Nate gets the gist of the story about how I made a mistake because Curie and Skittles are twins, and how I played nurse to Skittles.

  Nate nods. “Smart. Nursing chicks always earns you points.”

  “Obviously.” Except she said no dating because of some promotion, of all things. Was she playing hard to get because she regretted the one-night stand? Some women are weird about that sort of thing. They don’t want to look easy. Personally, I like easy women, especially when they’re easy only with me.

  Our brunch arrives. Nate shuts up and starts attacking his bacon like he hasn’t eaten in a decade. He has a strict motto: life is uncertain—eat bacon first.

  “Your phone’s quiet,” Nate says after polishing off his bacon. “Your mom give up?”

  I wasn’t thinking about her, but I’m not about to tell Nate I’ve been obsessing about Skittles and her promotion. “Maybe.”

  But that isn’t like Mom. She’ll hold a grudge for decades, even against her own flesh and blood. Her silence makes me worried, but I shove the unease aside. It’s possible she finally understands the futility of trying to get me to fix her marriage.

  Right. And Klingons are really Vulcans on Halloween.

  “Your dad leaving you alone too?”

  “Nope.” I down a mimosa. “He called me twice over the weekend, but…” I shrug.

  As I do so, I feel the solid weight of my phone in my pocket. Should I text Skittles? Maybe I should ask her out to Éternité. She’d probably enjoy the mimosas too.

  But she said no dating, remember?

  Brunch isn’t really dating. It’s eating. Everyone has to eat.

  “What are you stewing about?” Nate says.

  “What?”

  “You’re staring off into space. I know it’s not the food, and definitely not the company. So what gives? I thought things went well with Starburst.”

  “Starburst?”

  “You know, the Maui wedding twin.”

  “Oh. She doesn’t want to see me because she’s hung up on some silly promotion.”

  Nate shifts around. “No promotion is silly. It means more money and authority. And sometimes a better office.”

  “Okay, you’re right. The promotion isn’t silly. Her beliefs around what it takes to get one are.” Then I finally unload what she said.

  He listens. Confusion, disbelief and incredulity get into a mud-wrestling match on his face.

  “Really?” he says when I’m done. “Has she considered the possibility that she just sucks at her job?” He raises a hand before I can respond. “Scratch that. People who suck never think they suck.”

  “I think she’s probably okay,” I say, more out of wanting to defend her than any concrete basis. Nate could be right, but I don’t want to hear any talk about Skittles being incompetent.

  “Performance in bed and performance on the job are two very different matters. I know because I made a mistake of hiring an ex once. She was impossible. We had to let her go after a month.”

  I give him a look. I’m trying to date the woman, not hire her. “I can theoretically wait until she’s promoted this year.”

  “And if she doesn’t get promoted this year?”

  “Why do you have to be so negative?”

  “Just saying.” He cuts into his French toast, which is swimming in syrup. “Look, if she doesn’t want you enough to disregard some fucked-up no-dating rule, screw her.”

  That’s the problem. I want to screw her. Over and over again.

  Nate reads my face. “Dude. There are billions of women out there.”

  “But none of them is like Skittles.” Well, one is almost like Skittles. But she’s married now—and not quite right, if you know what I mean. And none of the others has lightened my heart the way Skittles has.

  “When the lights are off, they all feel about the same in bed.”

  Spoken like a true player. “Might as well date an inflatable doll, then.”

  “They should invent datable inflatable dolls. Cheap, low maintenance, easy.” Nate guzzles down his mimosa. “It isn’t like you to spend this much time and energy on a girl. You’re hung up on her because she made you chase her all the way to freakin’ Hawaii. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have spared her another thought. Trust me.”

  “But she did,” I say, irritated at Nate’s attitude, even though I understand where he’s coming from. Normally, I never bother because I hate exerting too much effort on women. However, with Skittles, things are different.

  But only a little, I swear.

  “Fine. Then stop thinking like the old Harry.”

  I flinch at the nickname Mom gave me to show my brothers how much she favored me. Too many bad memories there.

  Nate continues, “Think like the new Court. Like a billionaire.”

  “I won’t be one until after Friday.”

  He waves a hand. “What would Tony do?”

  I give Nate a strange look. “Lie?”

  “Okay, yeah, but that’s not—”

  “Make everyone else lie to cover up the lie?”

  “No, I mea—”

  “Shoot a guy?”

  “No! Look, shut up for a minute. What I mean is, he wouldn’t have waited for the promotion. And
there are ways to get her to see you now. What does she do?”

  “An analyst at a private wealth management firm.”

  He sits up. “Perfect! Open an account there and insist that she manage it for you. A hundred million will get you whatever you want.”

  Huh. “That isn’t even that much money.”

  “I know, right? But it’ll be enough. And getting a new account should get her noticed. So when she gets promoted, she’ll have you to thank and won’t stick to her silly rule. And if she doesn’t get promoted this year… Well, you can just drop by every so often to discuss the portfolio.”

  “Right. Like every day.”

  He spreads his hands. “Why not?”

  “A hundred million is a fortune,” I say, making my face look oh-so-serious.

  “A huge one. Very concerning amount. Enough to make you want to check in as often as possible.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  Nate leans back, cocks an eyebrow and swirls his wine. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Court

  On Saturday, I wake up a new man.

  Well, not a new man, but a billionaire.

  Dad’s lawyer changed everything solely into my name yesterday. And I swear, the heavens opened up this morning, bathing me in radiant light. Somewhere cherubs are playing harps and singing to celebrate this occasion. Probably drinking mead, too, and getting ready to have a little cherub orgy.

  Even the shower water feels softer and sweeter. It’s like the world is happy for me—except Dad, of course. Hard to try to control me now that I’m one hundred percent independent.

  Billionaire or not, I take my Maserati to Tony’s house to raid his wine cellar. Although I’m pretty decent with wine, a man’s got to recognize his limitations. My brother is much better with vintages and so on, and his collection is phenomenal.

  Since I made the kind of scene that got the tongues working overtime in Maui, I need to redeem myself. And the first step is bringing the right wine.

  Skittles’ dad said rosé. So I’m going to pick up the best rosé from Tony’s and a bouquet of flowers for her mom. Every woman loves flowers.