“So things would be different if I’d been born a boy?”
“Yes, they would.” He turned to face her, his eyes moist beneath thick, black brows. “No boy could do what you can do, Claude. I can hire people to work for my fund, no problem. But I could never hire anyone to do your job. You are my ambassador, my translator, my guide. I don’t speak the language these people speak. I don’t understand their ridiculous world. But you do. You know how to make them happy. Two more investors signed on this evening—because of the party you threw. You are as important to the business as I am.”
“You mean that?”
“Absolutely. Now, if you want to help the business even more, you can do your father a big favor and marry someone impressive. That way I can bring him into the fund and put his name beside ours on the door.”
“You really want to marry me off to some snob with a fancy name?” Claude jested. “What is this? The nineteenth century?”
“The game is the same as it’s always been,” her father told her, and she knew he was serious. “You’ve been dealt a good hand. You can either throw your cards in the air and walk away—or you can let me teach you how to play to win.”
He paused for a moment to contemplate his glass of scotch.
“To be honest, you are lucky that I am letting you choose your own husband.”
Claude pulled a throw pillow from behind her back and walloped him on the side of the head. They were both laughing so hard that a member of the staff poked their head through the door.
“No one’s being murdered. We are just having fun,” her father told the concerned servant. Her father was always kind to the help. When Claude was away, he even took his meals with them.
“The people who were here tonight look down on us,” Claude said, grabbing the glass of champagne she’d left sitting on the side table. “It doesn’t matter what we do. They always will.”
“Let them underestimate us,” her father said with a shrug. “That’s how we’ll win.”
Claude nodded thoughtfully and finished her champagne. “How do you like the name Van Bergen?”
“I have a client named Van Bergen. He’s the fanciest of them all. I used to think he shit rose blossoms. Now I know better.”
“Oh really?” She arched an eyebrow. “What exactly do you know?”
“Ask around and you’ll find out,” her father said. “It’s not something a girl should hear from her father.”
“Okay, but you still haven’t answered my question. How would you like the name Van Bergen for your door?”
Her father scowled. “That bastard. Did he proposition you? These old men think they can have anyone they want.”
“Calm down! Van Bergen has a son. I met him here tonight.”
Her father relaxed, releasing his breath in a whoosh. “And you liked him?”
“He was very handsome,” Claude said. “Though he said some mean things about you. I don’t know if I could ever forgive him for that.”
“Forgive him,” her father counseled.
“Why should I?”
“He’ll make excellent insurance. If anything were to happen to me, you would have your own fortune and a different name.”
“What could happen to you?” She was suddenly serious.
Her father patted her knee. “Nothing, my darling. Don’t worry your pretty head.”
Two years later, Claude was engaged. The discussion she’d had with her father that night was forgotten. She’d long since forgiven Owen for his snobbery, and she loved her life among the Van Bergens. Owen’s father got her a job with the best art gallery in Chelsea—and his mother drew invites to every gala in town. Claude heard the whispers about the senior Van Bergen, of course, but they weren’t that different from the things she’d heard about other Wall Street titans—including her father. She didn’t blame the gossips. Rumors were their way of keeping billionaires human.
Claude was at work at the gallery one afternoon when a grim-faced intern beckoned her into a conference room. The local news channel was playing on the monitor. From the pedestrian walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge, an enormous man had crawled out onto one of the beams above six lanes of cars. A tourist’s camera captured the action as bystanders screamed. When the man reached the end of the beam, he stood, wobbled, and jumped. A different camera captured the fall—and the impact when Claude’s father slammed into the water.
She later learned that her father had been buying a cup of coffee at the deli downstairs from his office on Maiden Lane when he got word from a member of the cleaning staff that the Feds were raiding his business. While his employees were being herded into a conference room, her father had simply slipped out onto the street. A dozen security cameras captured his trek to the East Side of Manhattan, where he joined a crowd of sightseers walking across the Brooklyn Bridge.
He jumped because he knew what the Feds would discover. There were no investments. His hedge fund was a Ponzi scheme. Every dime had been funneled into paintings and palaces. He must have realized he’d get caught eventually. That’s why he’d wanted her to have insurance, Claude realized. Then he’d died while the check was still in the mail.
Owen called off the wedding while Claude was waiting to be interrogated. The gallery fired her by email. Her mansion on Seventy-Fourth Street was seized that very evening. The Singer Sargents were packed up and loaded into the back of an unmarked government van. Within twenty-four hours, Claude had been stripped of everything she owned. Desperate, she went to see Owen’s father, prepared to grovel for a loan. His proposal made it clear how far she’d fallen—and how accurate all the rumors had been.
Heartbroken and humiliated, she slinked away with a thin envelope of cash. Until the authorities could be convinced of her innocence, she hid from the paparazzi in a motel room near a freeway in Queens. For the first time in her life, she knew exhaustion and hunger. The self-loathing felt worse. She despised herself for being so gullible. Her father had told her they were playing a game—and made himself out to be a master. But he’d never once told her how high the stakes were—and she’d had no idea he was cheating. Still, she loved him. When she cried, she cried not for Owen, but for him.
Claude was finally allowed to leave New York on the Saturday that would have been her wedding day. She hopped on an Amtrak and hopped off in Philadelphia. She couldn’t afford to go any farther. She never planned to go back to the city.
Six weeks later, she was on a break from her job at a midprice bridal boutique when she received the call.
“Is this Claude Marchand?” It was a woman’s voice.
“I have no comment,” Claude informed her.
“Oh no!” the woman cried before Claude could hang up. “I’m not a reporter. My name is Jennifer. My husband invented ChitChat?” She paused. Claude gave her nothing. “I got your number from a friend at the gallery you worked at. I would be grateful if you could give me a moment of your time.”