Chapter 4: What Beatrice Said to My Father
I found out three days later.
Not from my father.
From my cousin Diane, who had been seated two tables away and had watched the whole thing with the focused attention of someone who had always suspected Marcus was wrong for me.
"She went up to your dad right after you walked out," Diane told me.
We were sitting in my apartment, the wedding dress already returned, the reception flowers already wilting in a vase I hadn't thrown away yet.
"She introduced herself.
Very composed.
Like nothing had happened."
"What did she say?"
"I couldn't hear all of it.
But I heard her say — and I'm quoting — 'I hope Valeria isn't going to be dramatic about this.
Marcus has a real future ahead of him and she would be very fortunate to be part of it.'"
I set my coffee down.
"She said that.
To my father."
"To Arthur Voss.
Yes." Diane watched me.
"He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't change his expression.
He just said, 'I appreciate you introducing yourself,' and walked away."
That was my father.
The response that wasn't a response.
The exit that said everything.
I called him that evening.
"Diane told me about Beatrice," I said.
A pause.
"I wasn't going to bring it up."
"Why not?"
"Because it wasn't information you needed in that moment.
You were already thinking clearly."
"What did you actually think when she said it?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"I thought," he said carefully, "that she had spent so many years managing people that she no longer noticed when she was doing it.
She walked up to me and tried to reframe the entire evening as your overreaction.
She had no idea who she was talking to.
Not because of the fund.
Because she had never once considered that she might be wrong."
"Did she ask who you were?
What you did?"
"She did not.
She assumed I was someone she could manage."
I sat with that.
"Dad.
Did Marcus know about the fund before tonight?"
The pause this time told me the answer before he spoke.
"Richard Holt pulled me aside before he left the reception.
He mentioned that Marcus had asked him — about six weeks ago — whether Richard knew anything about the Voss family's current portfolio positioning."
The room felt very still.
"He was researching us," I said.
"He was asking questions.
What he intended to do with the answers, I can't say."
But I could.
I could say it very clearly.
Marcus had known my father's name meant something.
He had been trying to find out how much.
And he had said nothing to me.
Not once.
Not a single word.
I thought about the proposal.
The careful, romantic proposal in the restaurant I had once mentioned was my favorite.
The way he had listened, early on, whenever I talked about my family.
The questions that had seemed like interest and now rearranged themselves into something else entirely.
"I'm not signing on Thursday," I said.
"I know," my father said.
"I already assumed as much."
"I need to call Marcus."
"Yes."
"This is going to be unpleasant."
"Most honest conversations are," he said.
"Call me after."
I hung up.
I sat in my apartment for ten minutes.
Then I called Marcus.
He answered on the second ring, which meant he had been waiting.
"Valeria.
I'm glad you called.
I've been thinking about everything and I want to—"
"Did you ask Richard Holt about my father's fund?"
Silence.
"Marcus."
"I asked a general question.
About the Voss name.
It wasn't—"
"When?"
"Six weeks ago.
Maybe seven."
"Before or after you proposed?"
The silence this time was a different kind.
Heavier.
"After," he said.
"So you proposed without knowing.
Then you found out my father ran one of the largest private equity funds in the Midwest.
And you said nothing to me."
"I didn't think it mattered—"
"You didn't think it mattered," I repeated.
"Or you didn't want me to know you knew."
He didn't answer.
"I'm not signing on Thursday, Marcus."
"Valeria, please.
Let's meet in person.
Everything my mother said — I can explain the context—"
"I don't want context.
I want to know if you were marrying me or my father's fund."
The line was quiet for a long moment.
"That's not fair," he said finally.
"No," I said.
"It isn't."
I ended the call.
My phone lit up twice more that night.
Both times Marcus.
May you like
I let them ring.
The third call, just before midnight, was from a number I didn't recognize.
