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."

And I'm especially not marrying a clone of my brother. Every single one of the hundred dossiers is just like him raised in the most expensive and exclusive neighborhoods, properly educated in private schools and, most importantly, drilled since childhood to put work above everything else.

Those men talk about shares, market caps, and dividends. To them, a wife is a means to a financially beneficial merger and acquisition...and then a proper heir to take over the empire when the time comes. Birthdays and anniversaries are something their assistants keep track of and buy gifts for. If the wife is exceptionally lucky, she might get dinner with her husband.

I don't want that. I want what my friends have. Ivy's husband Tony never looked at her portfolio because she didn't have one. He married her because he loved her more than his own life. Evie's husband Nate married her because he'd been in love with her for the longest time since she started working as his assistant. Then there are Katherine and Williams...Jennifer and Edgar...

Even my parents are in love. Dad makes time for Mom. He lets her know she matters.

Why should I have to settle for less, just because I happened to be born into a wealthy family?

Charles sighs. "If you want to reject the men Mother and Father have chosen, prove yourself."

Wariness creeps over me. My brother hates to lose. So there's going to be a major trap in this seemingly innocent dare. But there's no challenge I can't rise to. And since I'd love nothing more than to show him I don't need one of those dossier men in my life, I keep my voice calm and confident. "How?"

"Survive on only what you can make. No falling back on the family connections or your friends. If you can prove that you're capable of that level of independence, sure, I'll back you when Father and Mother come after you with another list of bachelors."

Based on the cool confidence on his face, he's convinced I'm going to fail. But he isn't making an empty promise. My brother is many things, but he keeps his word. He'll side with me if I can show him I don't need the family money to live.

I smirk. "Piece of cake."

"You say that now, but wait until you have to downsize. You'll never be able to maintain your lifestyle on your own." A corner of his mouth quirks as his eyes flick toward my purse. "Your bag costs more than what Ms. Helen makes in a month."

I stand up, my gorgeous Dior clutched in my hand. "Then maybe you should pay her better," I say, feeling sorry for Ms. Helen that my brother is such a cheapo. "I'll email you when I have a job and the amazing independence you think I can't manage."

Charles gives me a toothy smile. "I wait with bated breath."

I exit the office, my head held high. Ms. Helen stands up behind her desk. I shoot her a pitying look. It must suck to have to buy all those expensive and pretty things for my brother's wife, but not be able to buy anything for herself.

Ms. Helen goes slightly pale, and she clasps her hands together. Are they shaking? Her eyes dart away.

Why is she reacting like I'm about to push her off a cliff?

Mr. Clifford is holding the doors open for the elevator. We all step inside.

I gesture Ms. Katherine closer. She steps forward until she's standing half a step behind me, with her body angled so she can whisper into my ear discreetly.

"What's wrong with Ms. Helen?"

"I think she suspects she's in trouble."

"This isn't the first time I've barged into Charles's office. He knows who to blame." I.e., me. And then Dad for indulging and spoiling me not that there's anything wrong with that.

"But you gave her that look."

I turn my head. "What 'look'?"

"Then I feel bad for you look. You always have it when somebody's in trouble with the chairman."

Ms. Katherine's being extra circumspect, but what she's trying to tell me is that I use that look whenever I have Dad demote or fire somebody. I've only done it a handful of times when I caught somebody stealing or being grossly negligent. Besides, I have never suggested to Dad how he should handle any particular matter. I leave that part entirely up to him because he knows best how to manage the people who work at the company. It's just that Dad quietly does what I think he should do.

"Ms. Helen has nothing to worry about. I was feeling bad for her for an entirely different reason."

Ms. Katherine's phone buzzes. She checks a message, then puts it away. All my other assistants' phones start going off as well.

The elevator arrives at the lobby, and I march out first. "Ms. Katherine, can you make me a list of all job openings I can apply for with my skill set? Nothing from the Golden Gate Group or its affiliates, though."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ben, but I don't work for you anymore." Ms. Katherine's voice is tight and uncomfortable. If a voice could squirm...

I stop, turning to face her. "What are you talking about?"

"I received a message from HR. I'm to report to the admin pool."

Shit. My stomach sinks. That was quick. Petty jerk. "What about your assignment? To spill mean, report to my mom about what I'm doing?"

"I suppose that's over as well."

Her shoulders are high and tense. She looks confused and upset. Probably dreading what this is about. Since she knows I'm not angry with her, she might be thinking it's my mom who's unhappy with her performance. And annoying my mom is never a good thing if you want to have a long and fruitful career at the company.

But I know for a fact it isn't Mom who did this. It's Charles. He's trying to ensure I have nobody around to help me.

Asshole.

I smile at Ms. Katherine. "Well then. I wish you luck. Hope you have a good assignment."

"Thank you, Ms. Ben." She bows and leaves.

I turn to Mr. Clifford. "How about you? Do you have to leave too?"

He nods, then clears his throat. "After I drop you off at your home. I'm sorry."

I wave my hand. "No need to be sorry. It isn't your fault."

It's my brother's. And Mom's for using him to get me married. She knows how Machiavellian he is. To him, everything justifies the end. The only reason he isn't trying physical violence is that it isn't his MO. Also, wedding photos look like crap when the bride is black and blue.

The other people in my entourage back away, bowing and mumbling apologies, and Mr. Clifford drives me home. The car stereo plays Chopin's Waltz in E minor, the rapid, turbulent notes reflecting my mood.

Unlike most Paris people of my age and circumstances, I don't live with my parents at the "primary residence." The place is huge, with three different wings and additions, so I would have all the privacy I wanted. Charles didn't move out after getting married; he just occupied one of the wings with his family. But then, as the heir to the Golden Gate empire, he's expected to be at the primary residence. He always does what's expected of him and doesn't understand why I don't. He forgets I don't have to because I'm not part of the empire the way he is. I'm not even a replacement, because if anything happened to him, the entire conglomerate would go to the management of an outside executive.

So Dad lets me live in a large luxury condo complex in the tony section of Paris called Chez, which is famous all over the world I wonder how much longer I can stay there without Charles finding a way to kick me out. Unfortunately, the lease is under the company's name for complex legal reasons I never quite understood.

And if he does, do I get to move back to the primary residence, or do I have to find an apartment on my own?

Probably on my own, because he specified not using family money. The primary residence has to fall under that category.

Tapping my fingers to another waltz, I mentally go through a list of friends in Paris I might be able to stay with, then shake my head. None of them will take me in, not if Charles makes a call. All of them have some kind of business dealings with Golden Gate or its subsidiaries. Friendships are fine until your market cap is at stake.

When the car stops at the glitzy gold and black entrance to my condo complex, Mr. Clifford  opens the door for me.

"Thank you for everything," I say. "Good luck."

"Thank you, Ms. Ben. I hope you have a good day," he says pleasantly, but I catch a hint of wistfulness. Mr. Clifford is a physical guy who likes to be out and about. So being my chauffeur and bodyguard has been an ideal assignment for him.

He drives away. I watch the black Mercedes vanish around the curve and wonder how I'm going to get around. There might be a bus stop or subway station somewhere, but I have no clue where. We don't get taxis driving by either, because every resident here has a car or two. Besides, I probably can't afford to ride taxis all the time now. I only have one hundred thousand FRF in cash like a hundred dollars in U.S. currency which is pathetic.

A loud engine roar catches my attention. I look in the direction and frown at the sight of a lemon-yellow Lamborghini. A familiar guy in his mid-twenties sticks his head out of the driver's-side window with an overly white grin. Excessive tooth bleaching. His pale, strawlike hair is spiked with gel. A pair of reflective sunglasses hides eyes I know to be small and unexceptional.

"Hey, babe. Finally caught you alone." His teeth gleam like a row of tiny searchlights.

I roll my eyes heavenward. Normally, Ms. Katherine  or Mr. Clifford f would keep people like this away, but I'm on my own now. Should I beat him with my heel? But is he worth ruining a Chanel?

"You're dressed nice," he says, trying again.

Obviously. Violet Georges Hobeika is more than nice. And Chanel heels are to die for. I love fashion, and I have excellent taste.

"Wanna go for a ride? This car's almost as nice as the way you look."

"I don't go for rides with convenience store cashiers who have to borrow their uncle's Lamborghinis. Or try to pick up girls who are way out of their league. You shouldn't be driving a car you can't fill up with money you make yourself."

His jaw drops. "What How did you...?" His face turns blotchy. "What are you talking about?"

"I know everything about everyone."

When I moved here, the security team created a set of extensive reports on everyone in the building, including the janitorial staff. I didn't read or remember everything about everyone, but I looked this idiot up when he repeatedly tried to hit on me despite Mr. Clifford's pro-level cock-blocking.

"You still haven't finished college, have you?" My voice drips with feigned pity. "Does your girlfriend know what you're up to?"

He swallows. "Freaky bitch."

"At least I'm not a loser and a cheater."

I turn and walk away, tossing my hair over my shoulder. I'm not worried about him trying anything. There are guards all over the place, one of the many benefits to living in the building.

I walk past the concierge and reception desks and take the elevator to the top floor. As the car moves upward, I tap the strap of my purse with my thumb, feeling anxious and nervous. Mr. Clifford  drove me here as soon as I left headquarters, but Charles could have some quicker and meaner minion to keep me out of my home. Although the stuff inside is mine I can't imagine Charles wanting to take over my shoe collection I can't take it if I can't get into the place. Given how ruthless he's been so far, he wouldn't mind one bit if I had to find an empty spot under a bridge to spend the night.

I pray the passcode is still good and enter the six-digit combination into the lock panel on the door to my unit. There is an interminable moment...