1
VALERIE VAN CLEEF
The room falls quiet as I squint at my father over our meal, wondering if I heard him right.
“You heard me. You’re getting married,” my father says, as my small, forced smile disappears.
“Excuse me?” I ask, taken aback. What did he just say? Mouth agape, I look at my stepmother, who is finishing off her glass of wine and already asking Dennis, our butler, for another.
“I have found you a husband.” He stabs his carrots with the crystal-encrusted fork from the formal cutlery set Abigail brought home from Italy last month. Not to be confused with the special Sunday cutlery set they already had, which is gold-plated and from Paris.
“Oh,” I sigh, with a small smile coming to my lips as my racing heart slows. “I thought you were serious for a moment there.” I shake my head at how silly I was for believing him. It isn’t like my father to joke. Actually, it isn’t like him to talk to me much at all. I can’t remember the last time we had a nice conversation. Dinners like tonight are few and far between.
A small growl emits from my feet, and l look down to see my little guard dog sitting up with his ears high. Bordeaux is a purebred Pomeranian, a ball of fluff, and my best friend. Good to know even he didn’t like my father’s odd sense of humor.
“Valerie. I am serious. You will be wedded in a few months,” he deadpans, and I sit up straight, looking at him, wide-eyed. He’s serious? My fork drops from my grip and clatters on the plate of perfectly seared sea bass untouched in front of me.
“What?” I can barely get the word out as my breaths suddenly feel sparse.
“Valerie. You will do this. It is what I expect of you.” He stabs his fish to punctuate his stern order, his dining manners now out the window. He is quick to anger these days. The father I grew up loving is no longer the man who sits at the dining table.
“But I don’t want to get married. Not to a stranger!” Heart pounding, my stomach churns with my argument. I'm too young. I’m only twenty-five. I haven’t found the love of my life yet. I want to fall in love, travel, and see the world together. This can’t be happening.
“It isn’t really about what you want, dear. It is about what is good for the business,” Abigail pipes up, and my eyes snap to her. Sure, she has never been a feminist, but I expected some support. She has filled the role of a mother for over a decade now since my own mother died. She hasn’t been overly loving, but she hasn’t been a total ogre either.
“But I want to choose my own husband. I want to fall in love.” Sitting forward, my flight-or-fight kicks in as my sweaty hands grip on to the edge of the table. This is my worst nightmare. I’m not stupid; I know arranged marriages still happen. But my father has never made mention of it before, so I just didn’t think it was in the cards for me. I should have known better.
My father huffs. “Of course, you don't get a choice. We need to align ourselves with other families of similar caliber. The Rothschilds are growing, and we need to assure our business interests too. Van Cleef Corp must flourish and thrive well into the future.” He’s dismissing me, like my own wants are of no concern. Probably because, in his mind, they aren’t.
“But why do I need to marry for that? I can run the business. I don’t need to marry someone to do that…” This isn’t making any sense. I have a law degree. I have worked in the business for years. I worked every summer, every school break. I went into the legal department straight out of college, and I have been there, working full-time, ever since. My goal was always to take over for him. I want to be CEO.
“You can’t run the business.” My father blows out a breath, shaking his head, almost in a mock laugh. I feel every muscle in my body lock tight.
“What?” I ask, my brow pinching. “I am your only child. The business has been passed down from female to female for generations. I have experience, I have the desire, I have the skills.” My body is growing hot and my hands are starting to shake. Everything I imagined about my future is unraveling right before my eyes.
“Once you are married, you won't work. You will need to produce heirs yourself.” Placing his cutlery on his plate, he wipes his lips with the French linen napkin.
“I don't understand?” I look between him and Abigail, utterly confused. My mind is spinning. I don’t know what in the world is going on. He paid for me to go to college. He supported me and encouraged me… Was my law degree simply for appearances?
“Oh, dear. Women of our stature don’t work,” my stepmother says a little more firmly, and things start to click into place.
“The Rothschild women do,” I state just as firmly. My mother did, I think to myself, but don’t dare say her name at the dinner table.
“Tsk. They married money, they aren't money.” She takes another big gulp of wine as I fist my hands in my dress under the table. She married money. My mother’s family money. So did my father, for that matter. Van Cleef Corp was built by the strong women in my maternal family line. Not by the two people sitting at this table. My father took over when my mom died, holding the role until I was older. I am ready now.
“But I want to work. I am good at what I do. I love Van Cleef Corp,” I plead with them, feeling my independence slip through my fingers with every passing second.
I love the business. We are predominantly in mergers and acquisitions, but also own interests in a wide variety of other sectors, including hospitality, manufacturing, and, of course, a lot of charity work. I love working. I love contributing. Until five seconds ago, I thought my life was near perfect. Great friends, great career, great opportunities, and soon to step up into my rightful position as CEO. Sure, I was yet to meet Mr. Right, but I was positive that he was coming for me, too.
“Nonsense. You will have babies and run the charity luncheons with Abigail,” my father says in a way that signals this is the end of the conversation. I look at Abigail, her pursed lips turned up in a smile, and I suppress a groan. I enjoy helping charities and I go to every event I can. But I don’t want to be just a Stepford wife like her. I want to work. I want to run Van Cleef Corp.
“I don’t understand. Van Cleef Corp is my family business. I am meant to be there. I am meant to be the CEO!” I push, my voice rising with my frustration. My father sighs like I am being disobedient and looks at me with cold eyes. I gulp a little because his eyes tell me everything I need to know. He never had any intention of letting me run the business, regardless of if it is my birth right.
“You will marry the man I selected for you. You will be a wife and a mother, and you’ll do what he says when he says it. You will not involve yourself with business affairs; you will not step out of line. You will remain well kept in appearance. You will do this for me.” I swallow roughly at the threat in his tone. Well kept in appearance? What’s wrong with my appearance? I look down at myself in my day dress. My hair is blow waved, my nails manicured. My weight has been the same for years, a perfect size four, as he always required. The familiar feeling of not being good enough crawls up my throat. Never good enough for my father. It is an unachievable target and one that I will never meet, no matter how hard I try.
“And if I don’t?” I ask, trying to act confident. I am a lawyer. I have my own money. My own apartment. As the only child of the Van Cleef family, the family business should be mine. But I have never gone against my father’s wishes. Ever. I have always done what he has asked. Now I understand that it didn’t benefit me whatsoever, and our relationship is just as broken as it has always been.
“There is no choice here, Valerie. I want to grow our empire. This is how I am going to do it.” And with that, he stands from the table. I am such an idiot. He has had this planned for years, no doubt. He just never told me about it.