Hate the Groom

The papers in my hand are wrong. Again.

"Explain this to me," I say, holding the folder up so the numbers catch the cold morning light spilling through my office windows. "The Halloran projections. The ones I asked for by eight. These figures are from last quarter."

Daniel stands across from my desk, and I watch the color drain out of his face in real time. He swallows hard enough that I see his throat move.

"Ms. Saint, I—I pulled the latest file, I swear I did, I must have—"

"You must have what?" I drop the folder onto the glass surface, and the slap of it makes him flinch. "I walk into that meeting in forty minutes. I sit across from people who have run this industry since before you could read, and I hand them numbers that are three months stale. Do you understand what that makes me look like? Do you understand what it makes the entire company look like?"

He clutches his tablet against his chest like a shield. "I understand, I'm so sorry, I'll fix it right now, I'll have the corrected version on your—"

"One more time," I cut in, and my voice goes quiet, which is worse than shouting and we both know it. "One more mistake like this, and you are gone. Not reassigned. Gone. Are we clear?"

"Yes," he breathes. "Yes, completely clear, thank you, thank you, I won't—"

A knock interrupts him. Firm, two raps, not asking permission so much as announcing itself. The door opens before I answer, and a broad man in a gray suit steps inside. I know his face before I know his name. Gregor. One of my father's people, the kind that stands behind chairs and never speaks unless spoken to.

"Ms. Saint," he says, hands folded. "Your father requests you at the main office. Now, if it's convenient."

It is never a request, with my father. I look at Daniel, who has gone very still, sensing the shift in the room.

"Corrected file. My inbox. Twenty minutes." I gather my jacket from the back of my chair. "Go."

He nearly trips over himself leaving.

My father's office occupies the top floor, and it has not changed in twenty years. The same dark wood, the same heavy curtains he refuses to replace, the same portrait of my grandfather watching the room with a disapproving eye. Arthur Saint sits behind a desk the size of a small boat, and when I enter, he smiles the way he smiles at investors.

"Chiara. Sit, darling."

"I have a meeting at nine, Father."

"This won't take long." He gestures anyway, and I sit, because twenty-three years have taught me that standing accomplishes nothing with him. He folds his hands and studies me with something that might be pride or might be calculation. With him, it's usually both. "You've grown into everything I hoped for. You know that? Sharper than I ever was. The board respects you. They fear you a little, which is better."

"You didn't call me up here to flatter me."

"No." He smiles wider. "You always could see straight through me. You'll be a better leader than I ever was, Chiara. The company will flourish under you. I have no doubt." He pauses, and I feel the pause like a held breath. "I need one thing from you first. One agreement. And then everything I've built is yours."

I don't react. I've been waiting for this for two years. He's sixty-five and still won't surrender the chair, and I always knew the handover would come with a string attached. He's my father. There's always a string.

"Name it," I say. "Whatever it is. Name your price and let me get to work."

He leans back, and the leather creaks under him like something old and patient. He lets the silence stretch, the way he does in negotiations, the way he taught me to do. "I want you to marry the man I choose for you."

For a moment I'm certain I've misheard. I wait for the rest of it, the punchline, the business sense. None comes.

"You're joking," I say, and a laugh climbs up my throat, sharp and disbelieving. "Tell me you're joking."

"I have never been more serious in my life."

I'm on my feet without deciding to be. "An arranged marriage? What century do you think this is? I have built my entire life around this company, I have given it everything, and you're going to make me—" My voice cracks and I hate it. "Make me what, a bargaining chip? A dowry?"

"Sit down, Chiara." His tone hardens into the one I've obeyed since childhood, and to my fury, my body almost listens. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I have planned this carefully. It is strategically necessary, more than you can see from where you're standing. You'll understand in time."

"Then explain it now."

"In time," he repeats. He softens, just slightly. "Listen to me. This marriage will be paper and nothing else. No performance. No pretending to be in love for the cameras. No tricks. A cold, clean business arrangement between two names. You'll have your title, your company, your life. You simply sign where I tell you."

I stand there breathing too hard, my pulse loud in my ears. Paper. Just paper. Nothing more.

"Promise me," I say. "Look at me and promise me. On paper only. No surprises. No games."

He meets my eyes without flinching. "I promise you. On everything we've built."

I should ask the name. I should ask a hundred things, and somewhere underneath the anger a quieter voice tells me so. But the meeting clock is ticking against my wrist, and the company is so close I can taste it, and pride has always been a louder voice in me than caution ever was.

"Fine," I say, the word like ash. "Fine. I'll marry your stranger."

The pen moves across the last page, and a year of waiting ends with the scratch of my father's signature.

Arthur sets the pen down with deliberate slowness, the way he does everything, and the room full of lawyers and board members holds its breath. Sixty-six years old, and he has finally chosen to step down. The contracts are stacked in front of him in neat towers, each one transferring something I have wanted since I was a child too small to see over this very table: authority, rights, the chair. All of it. Mine.

"It's done," my father says, looking up at me. His eyes are wet, which I did not expect. "Congratulations, Ms. Saint. The company is yours."

I don't cry. I won't. I stand and I straighten my jacket and I let the title settle over me like a coat that has always been tailored to fit.

"Thank you, Father," I say. "I won't waste what you built."

"I know you won't." He clasps my hand in both of his, and for a moment he is just an old man holding hi