Before Madame Danglars made her grand announcement about Eugénie's engagement to Andrea Cavalcanti, there was a confrontation that changed everything. Let's rewind to that morning, a day that would become known for its disasters, and step inside the lavish golden salon of Baron Danglars himself.

Around ten in the morning, the banker paced back and forth across his showpiece drawing room. His eyes darted between the two doors, his ears straining at every sound. Minutes crawled by. Finally, his patience snapped.

"Étienne!" he barked at his servant. "Find out why my daughter asked to meet me here and then makes me wait like some common beggar."

Venting helped. He took a breath and forced himself to calm down.

The situation was unusual, to say the least. His daughter Eugénie had requested a formal meeting with him, in the gilded drawing room, no less. The weirdness of it all, especially the cold formality, had thrown him off balance. Still, he'd come when summoned, arriving at the drawing room first like an obedient dog.

Étienne returned quickly. "Sir, Mademoiselle's maid says she's finishing getting ready. She'll be here shortly."

Danglars nodded curtly.

To the outside world, to servants, to society, Danglars played the role of the warm-hearted father, the understanding parent who spoiled his daughter. It was his public mask, carefully maintained like an actor's costume. But anyone who looked closely would see the cracks. Behind closed doors, that kindly facade crumbled away, revealing the tyrant underneath. The abusive husband, the domineering father who ruled his household with an iron fist.

Why the hell does that foolish girl want to talk to me anyway? he thought irritably. And why not in my study like a normal person?

He was running through this question for the twentieth time when the door finally opened.

Eugénie entered wearing an elegant black satin dress with intricate patterns, her hair perfectly styled, gloves already on, she looked like she was heading to the opera, not meeting her father.

"Well, Eugénie," Danglars said, his tone sharp. "What do you want? And why this formal drawing room instead of my comfortable study?"

"I understand why you're asking, Father." Eugénie made a graceful gesture indicating he should sit. Her voice was cool, measured. "In fact, your two questions perfectly set up everything we need to discuss. I'll answer both, and I'll start with the second one since it's easier."

She paused, and when she spoke again, her words were calculated, almost clinical.

"I chose this drawing room specifically to avoid the oppressive atmosphere of a banker's office. Those gold-embossed account books, those locked drawers that look like fortress gates, those piles of money that appear from nowhere, all those letters from England, Holland, Spain, India, China, Peru, they have a strange effect on a father's mind. They make him forget there are things in this world more important than profit margins and business connections."

She gestured elegantly around the room.

"So instead, I chose this space. Here, you see our portraits smiling from their magnificent frames, yours, mine, Mother's. Beautiful landscapes and peaceful pastoral scenes surround us. I believe in the power of environment to influence mood. Maybe that doesn't matter to you, but I wouldn't be much of an artist if I didn't pay attention to such details."

Danglars had listened to this entire speech with an expression of complete indifference. He understood approximately nothing. Like most people consumed by their own problems, he was too busy trying to figure out where his train of thought was going to follow anyone else's.

"Fine," he said flatly. "That explains the second point, I suppose."

"Now for the first," Eugénie continued, unfazed by his lack of comprehension. Her voice remained steady, almost masculine in its directness, a quality that defined both her speech and her mannerisms. "You asked why I requested this meeting. I'll tell you in two words, Father: I will not marry Count Andrea Cavalcanti."

Danglars shot out of his chair like he'd been electrocuted, his eyes and arms flying toward the ceiling in exasperation.

"Yes, really," Eugénie said, still completely calm. "I can see you're shocked. After all, since this engagement business started, I haven't objected even once. But here's the thing, I've always made sure that when the moment of truth arrives, I oppose with absolute determination anything people plan for me without my consent. Things that displease me simply won't happen."

She paused, and a barely perceptible smile crossed her lips.

"This time, though, my silence came from a different place. I wanted to practice obedience, like a good, devoted daughter should."

"And?" Danglars demanded.

"And, Father, I've tried my best. I really have. But now that the moment is actually here, I realize it's impossible. Despite all my efforts, I simply cannot go through with it."

Danglars felt his weak mind buckling under the weight of her merciless logic. This wasn't some emotional outburst, this was premeditated, calculated resistance from an iron will.

"But why?" he sputtered. "What's your reason for refusing, Eugénie? Explain yourself!"

"My reason?" The young woman's voice remained steady. "It's not that the man is uglier or more foolish or more unpleasant than anyone else. No, Andrea Cavalcanti is probably a perfectly acceptable specimen, as men go. It's not that my heart is more or less touched by him than by anyone else, that would be a schoolgirl's reasoning, which I consider beneath me."

Her eyes met his unflinchingly.

"The truth is, I don't love anyone, Father. You know that, don't you? So why should I burden my life with a permanent companion when there's no real reason to? Haven't the philosophers said, 'Nothing in excess' and 'I carry all I need with me'? I learned those principles in Latin and Greek, one from Phaedrus, the other from Bias, if I remember correctly."

She lifted her chin.

"Life is a shipwreck of our hopes, Father. An eternal one. So I'm throwing overboard the unnecessary cargo, that's all. I'll keep my own will intact and live perfectly alone, which means perfectly free."

"Unhappy girl!" Danglars whispered, his face draining of color. Years of experience had taught him to recognize an immovable obstacle when he hit one, and this was definitely that.

"Unhappy?" Eugénie laughed. "No, Father, that's theatrical nonsense. Happy, rather! What am I lacking? The world calls me beautiful, that's worth something. I enjoy favorable reception. It improves people's dispositions and makes everyone around me seem less ugly. I have intelligence and enough emotional sensitivity to extract from life whatever good I find, like a monkey cracking nuts for the meat inside."

She ticked off points on her gloved fingers.

"I'm rich, you have one of the largest fortunes in France. I'm your only daughter, and you're not like those melodramatic stage fathers who disinherit their children for not providing grandchildren. Besides, the law has stripped you of the power to disinherit me completely, just as it's stripped you of the power to force me to marry anyone. So, I'm beautiful, intelligent, talented, and wealthy. That's happiness, Father. So why call me unhappy?"

Watching his daughter smile with such pride, such borderline insolence, Danglars felt his violent temper surge. But it manifested only as a strangled exclamation. Under her piercing gaze, those stunning black eyes boring into him, he prudently looked away, forcing himself to calm down. He'd learned to be cautious around resolute minds like hers.

"You're absolutely right, daughter," he said, manufacturing a smile. "You are everything you claim to be, except for one thing. I won't tell you what it is yet. I'd rather let you guess."

Eugénie stared at him, genuinely surprised. The idea that even one jewel might be missing from her crown of pride clearly unsettled her.

"My daughter," Danglars continued, "you've perfectly explained the feelings of a young woman determined not to marry. Now let me explain the motives of a father who has decided his daughter will marry."

Eugénie bowed slightly, not like a submissive daughter, but like an opponent acknowledging the start of a debate.

"When a father asks his daughter to choose a husband," Danglars began, "he always has reasons. Some fathers have that obsession you mentioned, living again through their grandchildren. That's not my weakness, I'll tell you plainly. Family sentiment means nothing to me. I can admit this to a daughter philosophical enough to understand my indifference without judging me for it."

"Get to the point," Eugénie said coolly. "I admire directness, Father."