“Strange how BlackRiver didn’t have any alumni up for the Treasury job last January, no?” George says. “I was just speaking to Paulson—”
“Andrew,” Meredith interjects, settling a hand on her husband’s arm, deftly navigating in between the rising shoptalk. “As I was telling you, Lili’s in grad school at Columbia, working on her master’s. Economics, extraordinarily intelligent. We’d love if you could speak about your work, its opportunities.”
“Do you have an interest in sustainable investing?” Andrew asks Lili. He has the type of warmly handsome face you want to trust.
“I have an interest in sustainable economics.”
“As should we all,” he replies. “Petrov believes it’s—”
“Don’t you think it’s problematic to justify ESG on the basis of profit?” Lili interrupts.
Confusion furrows his brow, taken aback. “We are money managers, at the end of the day,” he concedes.
“Sometimes it seems your industry lets money manage it, rather than the other way around.” She knows she should back off; she can sense Meredith’s slightly disarmed air, George’s amusement, Andrew’s confusion at her unwarranted behavior that seems directed at him.
“Well,” Andrew says, slowly, “our hope is that if we can incentivize ourclients to invest in a manner that benefits both them and the planet, we can build a long-term engine of reciprocal benefit.”
“If your firm truly cared about the planet, you’d consider challenging the growth-at-all-costs mindset.”
“We can’t all be saints, Miss Marwan.”
It’s Aleksandr, standing beside her: the low run of his voice, the scent of him. Before she can help it, she’s turned to look at him—to look up at him, because he’s stupidly taller than her, the sheer misogyny of his height. Cold, those intelligent, dark eyes, and she can almost taste how his hair, just brushing against the collar of his shirt, is still slightly wet—a shower fresh off a plane, perhaps, at the loft where she’s been, where he’s pressed her against the marble, wet skin, coaxed her to come through tears—or maybe, a shower somewhere else,withsomeone else—and her fingers twitch around her empty glass; she wants to slap him and she wants to cry, because she knew this had an expiration date on it, but she didn’t think it would expire likethis—
Lili looks away. From a passing server, she grabs a fresh glass of champagne.
“Dad, you were saying you’d spoken to Paulson,” James says, smoothing over the rupture fast. “What were his thoughts on the Fed tapering?”
“You know Hank,” George chuckles. “Thinks government shouldn’t have gotten involved to this extent, but once involved, they need to see it through...” Leaving her behind, the conversation moves on, guided deftly by James. George loves to talk, and James knows how to encourage his father to dominate a conversation. Lili watches the bubbles in her champagne fizz, distantly tracking to the discussion on who’s up next for Fed chair. The party grows in pitch as more alcohol pours and bankers laugh.
She’s dressed in red, the woman with him: Kara. A fitted, elegant dress that hugs her figure perfectly but is entirely appropriate. Intelligent large eyes, lustrous brown hair that she shakes back over her shoulder, deep brown skin, a beautiful full mouth. She says something about inflation risks, a playful smirk; everyone laughs—evenMichaelfucking laughs.
Lili grips her drink so tight her knuckles strain.
“What do you think, Miss Marwan?”
It’s Aleksandr, interrupting George. Staring at her with unsettling stillness.
“Excuse me?”
“Greene thinks the last administration readThe General Theorytoo many times.”
Lili snorts. She’s not doing this.
Aleksandr’s eyes snap. “You disagree?”
“This country is much more enamored with Friedman than Keynes,” she mutters. “We scream red scare at any real government intervention that benefits anyone except the rich.”
George chuckles. “Smart girl, isn’t she, Petrov?”
Aleksandr ignores him. “I assume you think Friedman’s the devil.”
“I think he’s responsible for degrading the comity of humanity and mortgaging our future, yes.”
“Ah, right.” Aleksandr nods, taking a drink of his cognac, a condescending twist in his lips. “The blame levied on previous generations, consequences borne by future, blameless ones. An old song.”
He’s baiting her. She knows he is, but she doesn’t care; she’ll show him how little she cares, she’ll set fire to his precious little altar of capitalism. “Friedman convinced Washington to stop caring about people and hand big business limitless power,” she snaps. “It’s how we ended up with men like you.”
“Is it the government’s responsibility to worry about people?” Aleksandr asks.
