Stealing the Bride

by Lee, Nadia

  “I told you it’s about the pies.” Then I add, “He wants me to bake him some more.” I don’t really believe he meant it—my pies are good, but not that good—but that’s what he said, so…

  Dad presses his lips together. “At his place?”

  “Huh?” What kind of question is that?

  “Does he want you to bake him pies at his place?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say,” I respond distractedly. I want to tell Dad about Cristiano. So I do, feeling like that first time I created pro-forma statements on my own in high school. “He loved my Nikkei model.”

  “Mmm.” Dad’s eyebrows pinch together and lower over his narrowed eyes. If he were a weather system, a tornado would have started by now. “I don’t know why Rodney would make Cristiano think that your model is all that critical to our work. We’ve always grown his money for him.”

  It couldn’t hurt more if he’d backhanded me. My eyes sting, and I blink furiously. The weight of people’s gazes presses down on me. Their pity is too much to bear. Humiliation prickles like ants crawling.

  “Then why don’t you call him and tell him that?” I say coldly. Or at least I try to say it coldly. But my voice is shaking. And I hated it that I’m letting Dad know how hurt I am. A big girl doesn’t let someone see her cry or be hurt at work, even if it’s her dad.

  “I haven’t had the chance, but I will.” He starts to walk away, then stops. “Pascal, everyone has something that they’re really good at. Working here just isn’t for you. Your talent is better off used elsewhere, in other fields.”

  The words punch me in the heart, and I almost double over. I gasp, and somehow air is stuck in my throat. My cheeks are hot, like he’s slapped them. Tremors run through me, but I can’t stop them, not even by clenching my hands. He’s never, ever said anything like this to me before. If he honestly felt I wasn’t any good, why didn’t he tell me earlier? “Like what?” I say, my voice barely above whisper.

  “Well, look at what Curie’s doing. Be original. Make your own way.”

  He walks off.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Pascal

  For the next hour, I try to focus on work. But it’s impossible. Dad’s words keep circling in my head over and over and over again. Each time, a new layer of anger, doubt, disbelief and resentment settles over me like mud at the bottom of a river.

  Just look at what Curie’s doing.

  She graduated with a degree in art and photography. She used that, plus her extroverted personality, to become an influencer on Instagram. Does he really think I should be like Curie?

  But I don’t take that many pictures, and the only reason I’m on Instagram at all is to follow Curie.

  And that’s not all that’s distracting me. Every time somebody walks by my cubicle, I feel like they’re giving me a pitying look. Every time I hear a whisper, I feel like it’s about how pathetic I am.

  Intellectually, I know it’s crazily egotistical. A junior analyst like me isn’t that important at the firm. But I swear, it seems everyone has heard what Dad said. Combined that with how my idea was dismissed during the meeting last week, I might as well be sitting in the center of the bullseye of loserdom.

  Annoyance at myself surges at the negative emotions. My stomach is hurting too, mainly from stress, and I place a hand over, hoping the warmth will soothe it. My belly always acts up when I’m upset.

  I go to the bathroom and sit in a stall. Finally, no more pitying glances. I pull out my phone and start to text Curie, then stop. Is this so important that I need to unload it on her during her honeymoon? Her wedding ceremony already got ruined because of me.

  I put the phone away and stare at the floor. Is Dad right? Am I deluding myself into thinking I’m good at what I do? I just don’t know what else I need to do to contribute and stand out. To make a difference at the firm.

  If Dad doesn’t think I’m any good, it makes sense the VPs will share the same opinion. And that explains how they’re treating me in meetings these days.

  Maybe it’s time you update your résumé and look for something else.

  The notion is killing me. But I haven’t been promoted in four years. Dad could’ve been gently hinting that I should give up.

  Well, until today. Today he just came out and said it.

  I start to stand, but the door to the bathroom opens. I hear several shoes tapping on the tile floor, voices animated and excited in a hushed way that indicates they’re having an extra-juicy conversation.

  Oh geez. I hesitate, feeling like I’m back in seventh grade, when hiding in bathroom stalls was how you got the best gossip. I cross my arms and wait, not wanting to go out and see anybody. I don’t have the energy to be social and pretend I’m fine.

  “That poor girl. It’s so sad that she doesn’t know that she’s going to get passed over again,” one of them says. I hear water run.

  My stomach knots tightly. Now I wish I hadn’t had the burger with Court.

  They could be talking about somebody else, a small voice in my head says, although without much conviction.

  “I know, right? She’s trying so hard to impress her dad, too.”

  Bitterness fills my mouth. How many female employees have a dad to impress in the firm?

  “And failing. He’s been objecting to her promotion every year.”

  The revelation slams into me like a freight truck. For a second, I can’t process anything. Finally, what Court told me flashes through my head. He said somebody had to be sabotaging me. I dismissed it because the idea that one of my coworkers was stealing my work or trying to take the credit was crazy. But my own dad?

  Why would he do that when he knows how much it means to me?

  Maybe because you just aren’t very good at your job…? He said as much earlier, a mean voice whispers in my head.

  “Wonder why. Her evaluations look great.”

  “Who knows? Maybe he has ridiculously high expectations.”

  “At least she won’t be fired. That’s something.”

  “Yeah, but who wants to be a fifth-year junior analyst? It’s already bad enough—”

  I shove the stall door. It crashes open with a loud bang. A redhead whips around, while her friend—a blonde—drops her compact in the sink. I recognize them. Both are from HR.

  “Is it true?” I demand, my voice shaking.

  “What?” the redhead says, her smile unsteady, while the blonde grabs her compact and shoves it into her purse.

  “My dad’s the one who’s been blocking me from getting promoted?”

  They look everywhere but at me. “Um. I have a memo I need to wrap up.”

  “Yeah, I got to draft a hiring procedure for this year’s interns.”

  Blood pounds in my ears, my muscles going tight around my neck and shoulders. No fucking way they’re leaving after saying all that crap. They’re going to tell me exactly what’s been—being—done to my career.

  I leap ahead and block the door. “What’s going on? I have a right to know.”

  The blonde flushes, still unable to meet my eyes. “You can’t tell anybody I said anything. I could get fired.”

  Oh for God’s sake. “I won’t. I promise.”

  She clears her throat. “Well… Your dad keeps vetoing your promotion. The managers have been wanting to move you up since your first year.”

  First-year promotions are as rare as unicorns. My knees shake at the realization that I did that well…and was robbed of the recognition I deserve. “Why?”

  “He just kept saying you weren’t ready.”

  That’s bullshit. Not ready? “Is he the only one who didn’t want me promoted all this time?”

  “As far as I can tell from the files. But…” She bites her lower lip, smearing her teeth with the pink gloss. “You didn’t hear it from me, okay? I’m going to get into so much trouble if you say anything.” Her friend nods vigorously.

  I breathe hard, my heart racing with uncontrollable rage. A scream strangles
in my throat, and I swear my vision dims for a moment. I dig my nails into my palms. The pain anchors me. “I won’t say who told me, but I’m not going to stay quiet about this,” I say, then march out and toward my dad’s office.

  Betrayal swirls inside me, as violent as a summer storm. Dad knows why I joined the firm. He knows how important it is for me to make my mark, to be recognized, to be somebody. And when I shared my dreams with him when I first applied for a position here, I didn’t mean I wanted to be a popular social media influencer. I want to make my path, using my own unique talents and skills.

  And he, someone who should’ve been on my side all this time, made sure I could never have it. Never once did he hint he’d do this to me. Oh, no. And this explains the attitude of VPs. There’s no point in giving opportunities to someone who’ll never advance.

  Megumi starts to smile, then stops when she sees my expression. “Are you all right?”

  No, but it isn’t something I can unload on Dad’s assistant. “I need to talk to my dad right now.”

  “He doesn’t have a meeting, but he has a client coming in ten minutes.”

  That is enough for what I have in mind. I walk into his office and shut the door behind me.

  He looks up from his computer. “Pascal.” He frowns. “Do we have a meeting?”

  “No. I just need to know two things.”

  “Yes?”

  Every cell in my body starts shaking with nerves. Now that I’m here, I want him to tell me those women in the bathroom were mistaken. I want my dad to be on my side. Suddenly, I don’t even want to know for sure. But the question slips from my lips anyway, a lot steadier than I expected. “Is it true that you’ve been blocking me from getting promoted?”

  His eyelashes flutter so minutely that if I weren’t staring at him so intently, I would’ve missed it. “Yes.”

  I stumble, taking half a step back as though he’s punched me. A million wasps buzz in my belly and ears until I think I’m going to throw up. “Why?”

  He meets my gaze. “Honey, this is not where you belong.”

  That hurts again, but I cling to what I heard—that the managers thought I was good enough to be promoted my first year. I try to calm my racing heart, the furious roaring in my head. “I don’t belong here?” I ask shakily.

  “No. You belong with a man who’s going to spoil rotten and treat you like a queen.”

  Wow. Sexist much? I’ve dealt with enough sexism in my life, but coming from my dad, it’s extra hard. He adores Mom, and he’s always been a great dad. “Do you think I went to the University of Chicago and studied mathematics so I can be somebody’s trophy wife?”

  “I’m not saying you should be someone’s trophy wife. You’re good enough to be your man’s equal. And your education isn’t wasted. You meet a lot of eligible men while in college. Besides, men of certain social standing and ambition do not want some barely literate high school graduate.”

  I don’t even recognize my dad right now. Who is this person from half a century ago? He was so proud of me when I got accepted to college, but it…it wasn’t about me? It was about my marriage prospects? Everything inside me is shaking so hard that it takes a while to gather myself. “Have you ever considered the fact that maybe I want to stand on my own, without a man’s name or money behind me?”

  “Of course. That’s why I gave you a job, so you could get a taste of it. You did, too. The stress is awful for you, and you and I both learned you don’t handle it well. It’s been giving you indigestion for the last few years.”

  My molars grind together so hard that the muscles in my jaw start aching. “Yeah, because I was stressed out that no matter what I do, I’m simply not good enough!” My voice is nearly shrill despite my desperate attempt to keep it quiet and as unemotional as possible. Being emotional is bad in finance, especially if you’re a woman.

  “It’ll be your man’s duty to work and take care of you,” he says as though I haven’t said anything. “You should only enjoy the fruits of his labor, so to speak. Look how much happier your mother is now. She was miserable when she was working.”

  I put a fist over my pounding heart. I feel like it’s going to break through my ribcage otherwise. “So? What does that have to do with me? She said she hated her job because she was working for an asshole boss at a small insurance company whose number one goal in life was to deny people’s claims. I’m not her, and I’m not working for her old boss!”

  Dad’s expression remains the same indifferent, cold mask. Then I finally realize the truth—he doesn’t care how I feel.

  “Is this why you didn’t beat the crap out of Court in Maui?”

  He shrugs. “Court is perfect. He’s rich and young. Seems like a nice guy, and he must care about you to have gone all the way to Hawaii like he did. Your mother and I are both very pleased.”

  I refuse to accept that Mom’s in this too. She’s always told me I should do what I want. Encouraged me to study math if that was what made me happy. “Does she know you’ve been ensuring I can’t do what I want with my life?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. She and I agree on many things, especially when they concern you and your sister.”

  All the air squeezes out of my lungs. Mom and Dad have always been very close, and I’ve never, ever seen them argue.

  Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. The fact that I wasted four years of my life here pounds into my head until I feel like my skull’s about to explode. “I’ll give you what you want. I quit.”

  He smiles. And that makes me want to scream. But what did I expect? For him to tell me he’s sorry? Or that he’d give me the promotion I so richly deserve?

  “Great decision!” he says. “Now go spend some time with Court.”

  I’m tempted to tell him over my dead body, except that would be petty and childish. So I lift my chin and walk out with as much dignity as possible given the circumstances.

  Megumi jumps up from her seat. “Pascal, are you feeling okay? You’re so pale.”

  If the only thing she’s noticing is that I’m unusually pale, I’m doing a decent job of pulling myself together. There’s no way I’m falling apart right now. That’d be too humiliating. “I’m fine. Do you have a box I can borrow?”

  “A box?”

  “Yeah. Something about yay big. I just quit.” I realize my hands are shaking. I clench them and force a smile.

  Her eyes grow owlish. “Oh my God, but why? You like working here.”

  “Things have changed.”

  “Pascal, I’m going to miss you.”

  I stare at her. Her expression is positively dripping sympathy. But those two women from HR knew and never told me. How likely is it that Megumi didn’t know how Dad felt about me being here?

  Part of me wants to rail at her. I thought she was a friend. But I don’t need to make a scene. Besides, what can Megumi do? Risk her job? “I’ll miss you too.” I force the words out between stiff lips.

  Mechanically and quietly, I put my folios and the flowers from Court into the box. Next goes the framed photo of me and Curie. My hand stills over the one with me and Dad. A spiteful part of me says I really should leave it behind. But I snatch it off the desk anyway. It isn’t the janitor’s job to toss my trash.

  Carrying the box, I go to the elevators. Rage, humiliation and frustration pulse through me, but I try not to show anything. I don’t want to be the latest and hottest gossip around the water cooler. But maybe my effort here doesn’t matter anyway. My coworkers stare. Their silence is louder than a scream. I hit the down button. Rodney rushes out from his desk.

  “What’s going on, Pascal?” His dark eyes fall on my things. “What are you doing?”

  “Leaving.”

  “What? Why?” He runs a hand over his hair. “Did something happen?”

  “I just realized…” I can’t bring myself to say it. How do you tell someone your dad’s stuck in the Dark Ages? “It’s just better this way.”

  An elevator opens wit
h a ding. Thankfully, it’s empty.

  Small mercies. I step into it, then turn to face him. “Don’t be a stranger.”

  Confusion clouds his expression. But he’ll never understand. He is… Well, he doesn’t have a father who wants him to quit his job and get himself a sugar daddy.

  I hit the garage level, then chide myself for the uncharacteristically unkind feelings toward Rodney. It isn’t his fault Dad’s the way he is. Rodney’s always been one of the nicest people I worked with.

  Doesn’t matter now, though. I’m done here.

  I spot my silver Acura right where I left it, next to a Saab and an empty space. Anger and resentment tug at me. It was Dad’s gift when I got accepted to the University of Chicago. I adored that thing. I thought he was proud of me because I’d accomplished something amazing, not because he thought I’d land myself a husband with good earning potential and a portfolio brimming with blue chips.

  I dump the box in the back, then sit in the driver’s seat, my spine stiff. I’m afraid if I bend even a little, let myself feel anything other than anger, I’m going to be a mess. On autopilot, I put my hands around the steering wheel. I should go home. The Snyder Financial Group is not where I belong.

  An unspeakable pain spreads from my heart to the tips of my fingers and toes. I put my palm over my chest, hoping it’ll hurt less, but it doesn’t help. I clench my jaw so I don’t start bawling, even though I’m alone in the car. It’s a matter of pride. I am not going to cry over something that I can’t do anything about. It’s just a waste of time.

  A coppery tang registers. I realize I’ve been biting my lip hard enough to bleed.

  Angry with myself, I blow out a breath. This isn’t helpful. I should…

  Out of habit, I pull out my phone and start texting Curie. Then I stop. What am I doing? I keep forgetting she’s on her honeymoon. But then, she isn’t just my sister. She’s my best friend.

  I start thumbing through my contact list, looking for someone to talk to?

  Not Mom. And not anybody from work. A lot of my friends are also my coworkers. Shit. Ex-boyfriends are out…