I could. I had legitimate reasons. Meetings, deadlines and a board that depended on me. I could delay, control the timing, and choose my exposure.
I also knew my father. Delay only sharpened his interest.
“No,” I said. “I’ll go.”
She nodded once. “Car in three.”
I set the black folder on my desk and open it, revealing files and photographs.
Women posed carefully. Educated and polished, each page included a concise summary of family background, education, philanthropic interests, and “public reputation.”
This was not a dating list. It was a marriage roster.
My jaw tightened.
This wasn’t the first time he’d sent one. But this is the first time it’s been delivered like a business document. Like he wanted someone to see it.
Claire clears her throat quietly. “He asked that you review it before dinner.”
“Of course he did.”
She doesn’t comment. She never does.
I flip through the pages with practiced detachment. A clever mix of old money and new money. Strategic marriages disguised as romance. Not one of them looks like a choice I want to make. I close the folder and look back out over the Chicago skyline.
“Do you want me to reschedule anything?” Claire asks.
“No,” I say. “I’ll go.”
She nods once and leaves.
I leave the folder on my desk, grab my coat, and head for the elevators.
Elliot’s voice follows me down the hall. “Try not to sign your life away. I would like to think that we would get to meet the future Mrs. North before you do anything rash.”
He is enjoying this far too much.“I don’t sign anything without leverage.”
Rowan’s reply is quieter. “Sometimes leverage is the illusion.”
The elevator doors slide open. Inside, the mirrored wall reflects a man who has built his life on certainty. On contracts. On rules that keep emotions contained and people exactly where they belong.
Marriage, to my father, is infrastructure.
Dinner is just dinner.
That’s what I tell myself as the doors close.
Chapter 2 - Julian
I arrived ten minutes early, but that didn't really matter because my father was already seated. Richard North didn’t arrive early or late. He was always first and waited. Waiting was a tactic. It established hierarchy before the conversation even began. He let the other person cross the room, knowing they were already behind.
He sat near the windows, posture impeccable, dark suit cut perfectly to his frame. Silver, threading his dark hair, which was perfectly styled, reading glasses low on his nose as he reviewed the wine list with the same attention he gave balance sheets.
I crossed the room.
“Julian,” he said, looking up. No warmth, no irritation, just acknowledgment. “You’re punctual.”
Notearly. Noton time. Punctual.
