Coriolanus chose his female companions the same way he would his assistants—by checking off items on a list. Beauty wasn't necessary but it was definitely a bonus. A pleasant appearance was a must at the minimum, if he was to see her on a regular basis (this applied to assistants, too). Formidable familial backgrounds were preferred, though social popularity could make up for the lack of prestigious blood.
There was just one thing he didn't compromise on, and it was that this woman, regardless how attractive or influential, would never have his heart.
It wasn't a long list he'd begun with, which substantiated his perception that he wasn't particularly picky. Still, he could almost always add something to it at the end of every so-called relationship.
After Hebe Daft, who—true to her name—was in fact a bimbo, he'd imagined high intellect to be desirable, but Ursula Canville had demonstrated how tiresome it could be to have to listen to quantum theories all day, every day. He would never deny her contributions towards the scientific community, but he couldn't care less about the subatomic particles she was studying, as did most, if not all, of his circle. Upon letting her down gently, he'd appended common interests to the criteria.
Even the seemingly perfect Clemensia Dovecote had taught him something. Then, of course, there was Livia Cardew, who was unequivocal proof that an agreeable personality went a long way. Bless Damon Price and his man-eating soul for taking one for the team and saving all other men from her obnoxiousness.
Her sister was a different story. Refined and methodical, she seemed, at the moment, to tick all the boxes.
Now that he was approaching his thirties, the Grandma'am had started nagging at him to settle down, not that Coriolanus wasn't intending to. Being a player had always been part of his ploy, but he would eventually marry, start a family of his own, and carry on the Snow line, as was his duty. He had a valid excuse this year, moreover: With his inception as Plinth Industries chairman and the double promotions, his career was taking the front seat. Nevertheless, he kept one eye on the clock and out for potential candidates.
The thing was, it was tricky entering into a steady relationship without emotional strings. Women in general seemed to possess this unfathomable obsession with love. Clemensia had ended what Coriolanus deemed a wonderful and smooth-sailing spell on account of passion—the absence of it. She'd sat him down, explained that she cared deeply for him, then confessed she wasn't in love with him. That wasn't what she was looking for, she'd claimed. He was nowhere near being in love with her, but it enraged him all the same.
What did it matter whether or not she was in love with him? She would want for nothing if she became Mrs. Snow. Well, nothing but love, apparently, which she chose. And now, she was so in love, she had to raise her child in an apartment in the 5th ring—the 5th ring!
Oh, how the things we loved most destroyed us.
Such a shame it was to have lost a valuable ally in her father, Evaristus Dovecote, the energies secretary, not to mention she'd wasted close to a year of his life. Their classmates, evidently having considered them to be a splendid match, had all been shocked by their breakup, but it had been a cordial separation. They still saw plenty of each other, and every time, Coriolanus found himself filled with pity and wonder. He felt sorry that one of his best friends had been condemned to a life in the middle class while marvelling at the fact that she seemed nothing but to enjoy it.
It awed him, the power of love; its ability to bring one to their knees and render even the smartest stupid. He would know.
Clemensia had been an outlier, though. Making the ladies fall in love with him was not the problem—that was the easy part. But for something that demanded more commitment, it boiled down to whether they, once they'd passed his test, believed he felt the same way. It was an integral component of romance, the fixation of the feminine race—and the death of him.
Based on his experience, he'd concluded that one's job was likely to govern if a person was prone to this compulsion. People like Ursula and Livia, who consistently dealt with facts and figures, were not driven by the need to be loved. One could argue that they were already in love: Ursula with elementary entities bearing the suffix "-on"; Livia with herself. Others, like Clemensia and Berenice, whose roles in marketing and media respectively hinged on creative thinking, tended to be more sentimental.
Naturally, there were exceptions. Philadelphia Young, a surgical resident at Capitol Hospital introduced to him by Lysistrata Vickers, had declined his courtship because his temperament was too mild. He never heard her grumbling when he'd showered her with designer bags and jewelry. Would she rather he displayed his affection by acting all smitten like a teenage boy? If she had, he couldn't comprehend it. If she wanted to have her cake and eat it too, he couldn't help her.
Greediness in a woman was one thing that absolutely turned him off. Not that they had to be content or anything. Ambition was fine; even materialism he could tolerate. But he drew the line at greed. His wife would not be greedy.
As he sat in his plush, ergonomic chair, Coriolanus felt convinced that Laurentia Cardew was not the greedy type. He also felt as if he might have been transported to a different world. A world in which Livia Cardew was urbane, humble, and—truly, he couldn't believe it—likeable. This woman before him was a spitting image of her sister, but other than that, it was like they were completely unrelated, and he couldn't help but wonder how he'd never noticed before.
Fueled by her mother's influence in the financial sector, Coriolanus had gritted his teeth and dated Livia for a good six months. Even before that he had been aware of her two younger siblings: Liberatus—a brother, the middle child—and Laurentia, all spaced two years apart. Currently, both Livia and Liberatus worked with their mother, Lucretia, at CapCredit. Only Laurentia had been left out, and he could see why.
Through his interactions with the family, the impression he'd gotten was that they were an extremely cutthroat bunch. Everything was competitive in that household, be it a game of golf or organizing a dinner party. It made sense that they ran the largest, most profitable bank in the country. Well, they who had impressed upon him anyway.
He found himself retaining little memory of Mr. Cardew, Livia's father, apart from what he'd known by heart—his name: Blandus; his place of employment: Cardew Phipps Ring, the city's leading accounting services network, co-founded by none other than forefathers of the named families. Coriolanus couldn't say for certain the man's role in the company—assuredly, it wasn't a prominent one—but if his youngest daughter could be any indication, because, clearly, she hadn't been adopted, he was probably some kind of analyst.
It had been Coriolanus who'd campaigned for the Hunger Games division to establish their own accounting unit. Up until the inauguration of the Victor's Villages, they had shared one with the War Department. Part of the same parent agency, they were obligated to be of service, but their priorities were obviously elsewhere, and it was quickly evident that they couldn't cope with the increasing load brought on by the rapid expansion of the Games.
By then, their books had strayed well into the red. While the government was sure to continue its support and funding, this reflected poorly on the Games' leadership, which included Coriolanus. Their financials required full-time and professional care if one hoped to get them back on track—and one did hope. Coriolanus, specifically.
Since it had been his initiative, he was allowed to appoint the section's head. Young for a supervisor, Hypatia Turing had been easy to persuade. She was tremendous at her job; Coriolanus could tell from the work she'd produced for them. He could tell that she knew it too. She recognized, just as he had, that her career advancement within the War Department's archaic system had pretty much reached its limit. The fossils there accused him of poaching, but even if he hadn't made the offer, she would have left sooner rather than later. They should be thanking him for retaining her talent within the bureau.
All matters involving her headcount, from management to hiring, Coriolanus had additionally entrusted to her, based on the authority conferred on him as Dr. Gaul's deputy. Really, he was basically Head Gamemaker: Too tied up with her faculty responsibilities, she had put him in charge of overseeing every aspect of the Games, from organization to execution. He rarely needed her approval for anything. Even her slides for the annual The Arena guest lecture had been prepared by him. The only thing that had changed this year was that he conducted the talk himself.
To put it nicely, she'd given him free rein, which he enjoyed, so did not complain. And after everything she'd done for him, all the pains she'd gone through to groom him especially, he was grateful—honestly. But she couldn't have assumed she could take credit for his work forever, could she? He'd let her retire in a lab full of her beloved mutts. She'd be happy there.
Whatever the case was, Coriolanus, keen to ensure they were heading in the right direction, would have had frequent contact with Hypatia's team. Often, though, the annual budget planning was carried out with Hypatia herself, along with some of her more senior associates. As far as he was concerned, Laurentia, who had joined their ranks two years ago as a fresh graduate, had never been in the picture.
His idea of her, which seemed to have stagnated at the point he had split up with Livia, didn't help: he'd just attained his masters (the timing was an opportune excuse to end things), and she could have only been a sophomore at best. But this—this wasn't a wide-eyed university student. This was a young lady who knew what she was doing, in a fashion most unlike her sister.
Driven by an insatiable appetite for success, Livia fought for things and demanded attention. Laurentia, in contrast, exuded a sort of quiet capability. Rather than seeking appreciation, she seemed to derive fulfilment simply from accomplishing a task with the highest possible quality. She was not incompetent—far from it—just...understated.
Amidst a family of overachievers, he grasped why she'd been totally eclipsed. One wouldn't anticipate much difference in a professional setting, but Coriolanus felt confident her appearance today hadn't been arbitrary. Hypatia Turing wasn't an arbitrary woman; she wouldn't have assigned a comparatively green employee such an important presentation—in her absence, no less—if she hadn't been certain of her abilities.
In the corner of his eye, Coriolanus spied the intercom light of his office telephone flashing and gave his watch a surreptitious glance.
Five fifty-eight. Cutting it close, he thought.
"Wren," he interjected, causing Laurentia to halt mid-word, her face mildly surprised and not-so-mildly panicked. Coriolanus flashed her a warm smile. "I'll need you to wrap up. I've another meeting at six, and you two ought to be going."
Hastily, Laurentia nodded. "Yes, sir. The next slide's my last..."
Within the minute, she'd concluded, and Coriolanus buttoned up his jacket as he rose.
"That was good, Wren," he said, noting with satisfaction that her cheeks flared at the use of her diminutive. "It's a very detailed projection, but, like you've mentioned, there's too much in flux with our revenues at the moment. I'd like to table this for our weekly round-up on Friday. Marketing and PR would be able to provide a more realistic estimate of how much we can expect from our sponsors this year."
"Hypatia won't be back from her wisdom tooth extraction until Monday," inserted Atropos Harding matter-of-factly. As Laurentia's immediate superior, she'd sat in. And as a stickler for rules, she made for both an asset as well as an annoyance.
"Yeah," agreed Laurentia. "Shouldn't we wait for her?"
Coriolanus merely smiled as he strode around his desk toward the door. Pulling it back cleanly, he glimpsed his following appointment spring to her feet from the armchair in the waiting area but paid her no heed.
"The world doesn't stop spinning for one person." Then he addressed Laurentia exclusively. "Besides, she's trusted you with the case, and I trust her. You'll present—don't worry, I'll make the decisions. Now, go ahead and knock off."
Both of them gave him nods.
"Thank you, sir," said Laurentia, practically breathless with gratitude. He would have corrected her, told her to call him Coriolanus, but that would have been too conspicuous. This ought to be done slowly. So instead, he just smiled again.
"Don't thank me. You deserve it."
Her blush deepened, and although Atropos had whisked her off, he'd caught the brief exchange of recognition she shared with the waiting girl, as well as the stark disparity between their expressions: Laurentia had beamed, but the latter's effort to mirror it was feeble and forced, and now, without it, she looked positively miserable.
"Mr. Snow, your eighteen-hundred: Miss Lilith Gold."
AN: Is the love for Coryo dying out? Am I too late to this fanfic game? Nevertheless, stay tuned for the next one...