HEART OF GOLD | CORIOLANUS SNOW

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙋𝙏𝙀𝙍 19

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.