The crowd clapped again and Rosalie twisted her head this way and that, obviously looking for Preston.
He’s still cleaning up the blood, lady.
“I hope you’ve all had a chance to mingle and introduce yourself to new faces,” she continued, “for in a few days, you’ll share in common the nerve-wracking experience of waiting at home while your child makes one of the most important decisions in their life.
“Some of us have been through it ourselves, and others are joining in this tradition for the first time as parents.” She placed her hand over her heart. “Whichever the case, you can rest assured that your children are in good hands. I will be watching over them myself, ensuring that whatever decision they make is best for them and their families.”
More claps and nods of approval spreading around me. I stuffed a bite of dessert in my mouth to give my lips something to do other than curl.
Why were these people so happy? Nineteen-, twenty-, and twenty-one-year-olds press-ganged into arranged marriage and parents holding their kids’ inheritances over their heads to make it so.
Because that is what this tradition was truly about.
The community was simply the nation’s oldest and wealthiest families. We didn’t all live in the same place and most didn’t know each other outside of passing conversations at Christmas balls and charity events. But what these families did have in common was obscene amounts of money and a strong sense to hang on to it.
Many a fortune had been halved or wiped out by a gold-digger smart enough to get a ring on their finger before the parents started talking prenups. One too many a young fool had chosen a partner below their station who wasn’t fit for high society, and their constant faux pas relegated them to the back table at functions.
But rich people were problem-solvers.
No need to worry about passing on everything you worked for to your lovesick daughter and the scheming jackass that she married, when you can send her to schools with the right kind of people like Blackburn Academy. And if she hasn’t scoped out a potential fiancé by then, send her to the cove to finish the job.
People in the community only marry others from the community, and as such, the money stays where it belongs.
“This tradition was started ninety-five years ago by Lawrence Desai.” Rosalie Desai launched into the scripted version of our history. “It was his idea to reach out to the Knights, the Princes, the Van der Bergs, the Winthrops, and our ancestors in hopes of forming a community built on cooperation and family.
“Back then, it wasn’t uncommon for parents to arrange suitable matches for their children. In Lawrence’s case, and having married a woman his parents had chosen for him, he felt there was a better way for his own son and daughter. A way to ensure they made the best match but were also included in the process.”
The server returned with my tea, setting down the steaming mug and an extra piece of tiramisu. He winked at me. “There’s also an extra plate of prime rib and herb sauce if you’re still hungry.”
Smiling, I shook my head. Of course he knew I hadn’t eaten anything after clearing untouched plates from my table.
Funny how this kind and thoughtful guy is seen as the less suitable match over the likes of Carter, Nathan, and Preston.
“—continue the tradition for the good of our children.” Mrs. Desai was still speaking. “This Friday, you will fly to our private stretch of land on the tip of Citrine Cove—so named for the endless fields of orange trees. You’ll spend your days swimming, sailing, hiking, fishing, and enjoying the natural beauty of the area.”
Love how she’s dressing it up as a vacation.
“In between, you’ll participate in various activities and challenges designed to help you find your right match. And don’t be surprised if it’s not who you think.” She laughed—a light, charming sound like tinkling wind chimes. “Let me admit to all of you, my friends and community, that my husband was not my first choice. I kept thinking, I don’t know who I’ll choose, but it certainly won’t be that silly boy with the puppy-dog eyes.”
Everyone laughed. Loudest of all a deep, masculine treble. Mrs. Desai blew a kiss to someone at the front table who snagged it out of the air.
“But choose him I did,” she said, “and I know now that if I married one of the men my parents not-so-subtly pointed