She wore a navy evening gown, held a whiskey, eyes on something in front of her. Didn't look up when I walked in.
"You're here," she said. Same tone she'd use to say "turn off the lights."
"Yeah," I said, draping my coat over a chair.
She finally looked at me, expression carrying the weary immunity of someone long past caring about my tone. Then she pushed something across the coffee table toward me.
A marriage contract. Beautifully printed, expertly bound, Rossi Group letterhead at the top. Plus a thick stack of financing proposals.
"The Rossi Group is willing to inject thirty-five million euros into the European division," Elizabeth said.
"The condition is a family alliance. Diana Rossi. Twenty-three, European art history degree, currently heads their PR division. She'll be at the Four Seasons tomorrow at three. You know what to do."
"I have a girlfriend," I said. "I can't—"
"That translator?"
Her voice wasn't raised. Actually calm. But that calm made me stop cold, because underneath it was something else—complete, effortless contempt.
"You know she's not right for you." Elizabeth continued, setting down her whiskey glass.
"No family background, no network, doing translation work in immigrant communities. Paul, I'm not judging her value as a person. I'm telling you reality. Bringing her to any formal occasion does nothing for you. Nothing for the family either."
"I wasn't planning to take her to 'formal occasions,'" I said, hearing my voice go dry. "I mean, we're together. This isn't some—"
"You think your so-called love can pay off these debts?"
She grabbed the financial reports and dropped them in front of me. I glanced down. Yeah. That number made optimism pretty damn hard.
"Your father sacrificed his life for this family. He's in a hospital bed now. He can't handle this anymore. So it falls to you. That's what it means to be the heir, Paul. Not your personal feelings."
I opened my mouth, spent three full seconds searching my brain for a strong counterargument. Came up empty.
Because everything she said, every single point, I'd heard it somewhere before. Not from her mouth. From my own head. From my father's silences. From every brick in this manor. From sitting in my father's study as a kid, listening to his business calls, slowly understanding the truth: Vincent children aren't ordinary people. Vincent children have responsibilities.
Social standing. Family interests.
"The Rossi investment," I said, hearing a strange, exhausted calm in my voice. "This is the only option?"
"Currently, yes," Elizabeth said. "We've approached two other families. Their terms weren't as good. And we're running out of time. If the European division can't hold through quarter's end, it's only a matter of time before it hits the domestic operations. The board's already discussing divestiture. You know what that means."
Of course I knew. Divestiture meant that everything my father spent thirty years building would get carved up, each piece sold to the highest bidder. And I'd stand there watching. Because I'd signed off on it.
"Does he know?" I asked. "Father."
"It was his idea," she said, no emotion in her voice. "He said to let you decide. But he hopes you'll make the right choice."
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny. Because sometimes your nervous system just produces weird stressresponses. When your brain can't find the right emotional outlet, it randomly picks an inappropriate one.
I looked down at the marriage contract again. The Rossi Group logo gleamed gold on the cover—radiating absolute confidence that we'd accept.
"I'll go tomorrow," I heard myself say. "Four Seasons. Three o'clock."
Elizabeth showed no surprise, no relief. She lifted her whiskey glass, took a sip. That was it.
Like she'd known all along how this would end. Tonight was just procedure. Now we could go to bed.
"Look over the contract first. After you meet her tomorrow, we'll discuss the details," she said. "And clean yourself up. You look like hell."
