Still not listening, Charles starts to tick off points on his fingers. "He's well educated, trilingual, in charge of...."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And if we get married, 'our combined family holdings' market cap will increase by twelve percent.' And that's a conservative estimate, according to the analysis you've done," I say bitterly, cutting him off so he won't waste time listing up the inconsequential advantages of marrying the man. His looks, height, GPA, how many degrees he has, his stock portfolio positions, real estate holdings... And, of course, the most important point: his family's market capitalization. And the fact that the company's in charge of a very popular cosmetics brand.
Charles spreads his hands. "You could've picked last week's guy. That would've resulted in a fifteen percent increase."
"No," I say firmly. Amazingly, he can keep track of details like that. All the dossiers look the same to me: rich, educated, and have something to add to the Golden Gate Group's bottom line.
He sighs. "We gave you a hundred dossiers. How hard can it be to choose one?"
"Extremely, since I don't like any of them."
"They're the most sought-after, most eligible bachelors in the country! We created the list two years ago, and forty-four of them have been snatched up since. That should tell you something about Mother's discerning taste in men. If you keep being so stubborn, there won't be anyone left to choose from."
"Good! Then I'll be able to pick my own!"
Charles gives me a pitying look. "Remember how that worked out for you last time? He gave you up for two hundred million dollar."
Humiliation sears my face. Two hundred million dollars isn't even real money. But eight years ago, an ex-boyfriend accepted that amount that pocket change to dump me. Mom called it a service to my future. I have to agree that if I'd married that cheap jerk, my life would've been miserable. But that doesn't mean I'm okay with Charles rubbing it in my face. Or my parents trying to force their picks on me.
"It isn't like you never made a mistake," I shoot back.
"At least mine took half a billion dollars."
He states it matter-of-factly, but it only pisses me off more. What the hell does he think this is? A competition to see who has the shittier ex?
If so, fine! My ex is worse than his. That asshole fled the country after discarding me like garbage. A smart move on his part, because if I ever see him again, I'm going to have Mr. Clifford run him over, then back up and do it again. My family has the best lawyers in the country. My chauffeur-slash-bodyguard would get off with a minor slap on the wrist, and I'd have the pleasure of turning that lower intestinal orifice into a human pancake.
"And unlike you, I learned my lesson," Charles adds. "Which is why I married my wife."
And thanks to that merger marriage, our combined market cap increased by twenty percent. But to me, that isn't the most important thing.
"Uh-huh. And are you happy now?" I ask.
Charles looks at me like he doesn't understand the question. Finally, he says, "We have a son."
"That isn't what I asked."
"We have a son," he says again. "What more do I need?"
"Love? Maybe a little devotion to each other? I mean, do you even like her?"
Pity fleets across his face.
And the fact that he feels sorry for me for wanting love makes me madder and just a little bit sad. I flick a hand in the direction of the doors, on the other side of which Ms. Helen is undoubtedly working diligently at her desk. "Or is Ms. Helen buying yet another anniversary gift for her?"
"Ms. Helen has exceptional taste and pays meticulous attention to detail." He explains it to me like he's talking to a five-year-old who doesn't understand why everyone can't get a piece of candy.
Of course, she has all those qualities and more. Otherwise, she wouldn't have lasted so long working for my brother. "Dad picks out Mom's gifts himself."
"Because his assistant is too old-fashioned to know what's trendy," Charles says.
My teeth grind with frustration. It's just like my brother to be obtuse on this matter, but I know he's doing it on purpose. He didn't study economics at the University of Chicago and then get into Harvard Business School by being stupid.
"You know that isn't true," I say. "There's nothing wrong with Mr. Patrick's taste."
"No. What's true is that you want to benefit from being a member of this family without living up to any of the responsibilities."
I bristle. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm not causing some huge rift or political infighting by trying to challenge you for control of the company. Why? Because I know you're better suited for that sort of thing. And instead of being a concert pianist like I wanted, I've accepted that working like that wouldn't be okay. So I'm heading up the Ivy Foundation."
"Leading one of our family's charitable organizations is fine, but you have other responsibilities as well."
"I don't just run it, I created it. And it's a good fit. Being a pianist myself, I can discover talent faster than anyone else around here. And I'm not drawing a salary."
He gives me a look. "Do you think this is about saving a few pennies?"
Okay, he has a point. My salary wouldn't even be a rounding error to the family in the grand scheme of things. And I didn't ask to be paid because I don't need the money and I'd rather have it go toward more scholarships. I get plenty through the huge trust my late grandparents set up for the family's personal use. I don't control it, but then, I've never had a reason to care about controlling it...until now.
"We can hire someone to lead the foundation, but we can't hire someone to marry in your stead," Charles says.
"Then just accept that I'm not going to get married without love and give up."
"You can easily fall in love with one of the fifty-six who are left." His tone says I should be thrilled that he's given me a perfect solution.
"Charles, I'm not marrying a portfolio."