Chapter 3 #2
Tigran sets down his fork and studies my face with renewed interest. “Integrity is a luxury most people can’t afford when family security depends on practical decision-making.”
“Family security.” I repeat his words. “Is that what we’re calling this arrangement? A security measure?”
Papa clears his throat loudly. “Zita, perhaps we should focus on getting to know Tigran better.”
“You blame my family for changes in your neighborhood.” Tigran’s voice remains calm, but I detect an edge underneath. “That’s understandable. Change is always difficult for people who prefer familiar patterns.”
“Change?” I can’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “Is that what you call it when honest businesses are forced to close because they can’t pay protection money?”
“I call it evolution.” Tigran’s response is delivered with confidence. “Markets adapt to new conditions. Businesses that can’t compete are replaced by organizations that can.”
The casual cruelty of his worldview stuns me.
He’s talking about Mrs. Petrucci’s bakery like it was a weak company that deserved to fail.
“Those weren’t businesses that couldn’t compete.
” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay controlled.
“They were families who built honest lives that got crushed by people who don’t care about anything except power. ”
“Honest lives were built on outdated models.” Tigran cuts his meat like he’s dissecting something in a lab. “The families you’re mourning refused to adapt to changing circumstances.”
“Their failure to pay extortion money, you mean.” I set down my fork, no longer pretending to eat. “Their failure to bow down to criminals.”
Papa’s face has gone pale, but Tigran seems almost amused by my outburst. “You have strong opinions about situations you don’t fully understand.” He settles back in his chair. “That level of passion could be useful if properly directed.”
“Properly directed toward what? Helping you destroy more neighborhoods?”
“Properly directed toward building something better than what existed before.” Tigran’s voice takes on a patient tone. “Your father understands the benefits of smart partnerships. Perhaps you’ll learn to appreciate them as well.”
The condescension ignites something dangerous in my chest. “I understand partnerships perfectly. This arrangement benefits you and my father. I’m just the commodity being traded to seal your deal.”
Tigran’s expression finally shifts from cool amusement as a flicker of irritation crosses his features. “You’re not a commodity. You’re a woman entering into a marriage that will provide opportunities neither of us could access independently.”
“Opportunities to do what, exactly? Play hostess at parties for criminals? Smile prettily while you discuss which businesses to destroy next?”
“Opportunities to influence the direction of two major organizations.” Tigran’s voice hardens. “Your education and intelligence could contribute to strategic decisions… unless you prefer to spend your life complaining about problems instead of solving them.”
I arch a brow, not hiding my skepticism. “You want me to believe marrying you will give me the power to change how your organization operates?”
“I want you to consider that your assumptions about my organization might be as outdated as the business models you’re defending.” Tigran’s tone becomes glacial. “That level of open-mindedness might be beyond your capabilities.”
The insult strikes at my intellectual pride.
He’s suggesting I’m too narrow-minded to understand his world.
“My capabilities include recognizing criminal enterprises regardless of how sophisticated their marketing becomes.” I stand up abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor.
“Excuse me. I seem to have lost my appetite.”
I walk toward the dining room exit without waiting for permission. Behind me, I hear Papa calling my name, but Tigran doesn’t say anything at all, which somehow feels worse than anger or disappointment.
I reach Papa’s study and pour myself a glass of whiskey from the bottle he keeps for business meetings.
The amber liquid burns slightly going down, but it doesn’t ease the tension building in my shoulders.
Tigran is cold, calculating, and completely convinced of his own superiority.
He views the destruction of my neighborhood as natural evolution and dismisses my concerns as na?ve idealism.
The study smells like the cigars Papa smokes, leather, and old books. Family photographs line the shelves, including several of Mom before she left. She looks young and hopeful in those pictures, before she learned what Papa’s business relationships really cost.
I wonder what she would think of this evening, and the man Papa expects me to marry. Would she tell me to fight harder, or would she understand that some battles can’t be won? She chose escape, but I don’t have that option. The contracts on Papa’s desk make sure of that.
Footsteps in the hallway announce someone’s approach. I brace myself for Papa’s lecture about proper behavior during important negotiations. Instead, Tigran appears in the doorway, looking completely unruffled by our hostile exchange.
“Your father suggested I apologize for offending you.” He enters without invitation and closes the door. “But I’m not sure what I should apologize for.”
“You could start with comparing the destruction of family businesses to natural evolution.”
“Both statements were accurate observations based on economic realities.” He approaches Papa’s desk. “If you found them offensive, perhaps the problem is your perspective rather than my honesty.”
“My perspective is based on watching good people lose everything because criminals decided their neighborhoods were profitable.”
He lifts a shoulder. “My perspective is based on understanding that economic systems evolve regardless of individual preferences.” His voice remains calm. “Your good people were casualties of changes they couldn’t prevent.”
I glare at him. “Changes your father implemented deliberately.”
“Perhaps,” Tigran concedes with a shrug, “But conquest has already occurred. The question now is what we do with the results.”
The casual way he acknowledges responsibility while dismissing moral implications makes my chest burn. “What we do is admit that some victories aren’t worth celebrating.”
“Just as some defeats aren’t worth mourning indefinitely.” Tigran moves closer. “Your neighborhood businesses were already struggling before my father’s organization expanded. We accelerated existing trends rather than creating new problems.”
“You provided the final push that destroyed them.”
“I don’t pretend anything.” His gray eyes meet mine with directness. “I accept responsibility for my family’s actions while recognizing that dwelling on past decisions serves no productive purpose.”
I sniff, though a small part of me knows that assessment is accurate.
“I want this marriage.” His statement stuns me. “Not for romantic reasons, of course, but because it serves practical purposes for both our families.”
I roll my eyes. “How romantic. I’ve always dreamed of a marriage based on practical purposes.”
His lips twitch, but his tone remains serious. “Romance is temporary. Practical partnerships last longer and cause less damage when they end.”
I tilt my head, genuinely curious about his answer. “How long do you expect this practical partnership to last?”
“Until one of us dies or the benefits no longer justify the costs.” He says that in a tone he might use for quarterly profit margins. “Ideally, we’ll develop enough mutual respect to make the arrangement tolerable.”
“Mutual respect based on what, exactly? Your family destroyed my neighborhood, you dismiss my concerns, and you’re forcing me into marriage. What should inspire my respect?”
“The fact that I’m being honest about our circumstances instead of pretending this is something it’s not.” He sounds impatient. “Most arranged marriages begin with false promises. I prefer realistic parameters.”
“Should I be grateful for your honesty about treating me like a business acquisition?”
“You should be grateful that I’m treating you like an intelligent adult instead of a romantic fantasy.” Tigran maintains distance while making clear he won’t be dismissed. “Your intelligence is one of your most valuable assets.”
“My intelligence tells me this marriage is a mistake for everyone involved.”
“Your intelligence is limited by incomplete information.” Tigran’s tone becomes patronizing. “You don’t understand the pressures my organization faces or the advantages this marriage provides. Your unwillingness suggests independence that could be useful if properly motivated.”
I shake my head, rejecting the idea. “This marriage is happening whether either of us wants it.” I walk toward the door. “I accept that, but don’t expect me to pretend I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“I expect you to honor the commitments your father made on your behalf.” Tigran’s voice follows me. “Beyond that, your attitude is your own choice.”
I pause at the door. “My attitude will reflect my circumstances. If you want a willing partner, you might consider creating conditions that inspire willingness.”
“Willingness can’t be created through external conditions.” His response carries certainty. “It comes from accepting reality and making the best possible choices within the existing constraints.”
“If those constraints are too restrictive, the choice becomes whether to stay or go,” I say, glaring at him.
His mouth twists downward. “I expect you’ll have more strength than your mother. You won’t run away when things get hard.”
I lift my hand, poised to slap him for his remarks about my mother, but I hesitate.
I’m conflicted about her, and while he’s probably using that weak point to goad me or make a point, there’s truth in his implications.
Mom did leave without me. I don’t blame her for getting out while she could, but I can’t imagine any circumstances that justify leaving behind a child.
In that situation, I’d stay and fight to the death if need be.
As I lower my hand without striking, his arrogant smirk briefly tempts me to raise it again. Instead, I turn and walk away from him without another word.
The next morning, I wake to find my engagement announced in the Chicago Tribune’s society section. The headline reads “Local Business Heiress to Wed Russian Entrepreneur,” and the article spins our arranged marriage into a romantic love story.
My phone starts ringing at eight o’clock with congratulations from friends who believe the newspaper’s fairy tale. Each conversation requires me to smile and sound grateful while inside I’m mourning every dream I had about choosing my own future.
By noon, I realize this performance of happiness will be my life from now on.
I’m no longer Zita, who had plans and dreams. I’m already becoming Mrs. Tigran Belsky, the grateful bride who found love with a sophisticated businessman.
The woman I actually am will have to exist privately, in the spaces between public appearances and strategic obligations.