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“I like her.”

As it turned out, she would have to fake something after all. A smile, aimed at her ex-husband who unceremoniously sat down next to her, buzzing her cheek in one smooth move while keeping his gaze on the brunette whose eyes narrowed before she turned away completely.

Magdalene allowed herself a small scowl. Timothy didn’t quite crow, but judging by the way he was grinning triumphantly, it was a close call.

“Did I interrupt?” His tone as innocent as a cherub’s, he gently turned her wrist. The Vacheron Constantin watch gleamed at him, all steel and platinum, as she pulled her hand away.

“You could have just asked me for the time.” She chose to ignore his earlier line of questioning entirely.

“Yes, but then I would have missed seeing the watch. I miss it almost as much as I do you. In fact, if this wasn’t a gift from your mother, I would have tried to snatch it from you in the divorce. And to think that you don’t even like it. It’s a work of art.”

Magdalene tuned him out. The Vacheron weighed heavily on her wrist, along with all the memories, and if she were in a mood to lie to herself, she’d say she didn’t know why she even wore it. Years later, and it only grew heavier, and yet she never once chose to wear one of the myriad of watches he’d gifted her during their marriage. Or any of the timepieces she’d bought for herself once the marriage was over.

Timothy was right about her not liking the watch. She never had. Not thirty years ago, when her mother had given it to her as a consolation prize for being discarded, and not now, when all it did was remind her of exactly why she’d received it in the first place. As shackles went, this was an expensive and rare one.

“And speaking of your mother. I had lunch with Candace last week, before I came down. Honestly, the watch and your mother. I wish I could have gotten both of them in the divorce.”

His smile was sincere, no pretense clouded his eyes, and Magdalene saw the boy she’d fallen for all those years ago. The one who’d made her smile—who made her shake her head these days. At herself, at him, at them, and at how they had broken each other into tiny sharp shards.

The bartender handed her another glass of wine—one she hadn’t ordered—and pulled her back into the present and to the no-longer-clear eyes of her ex-husband, who was now watching her with something akin to poorly masked jealousy.

“The lady in red left you a note and wished to order a glass of wine for you, ma’am.”

Magdalene did not even have to feign surprise as she reached for the offering. She’d been certain the woman had lost interest with Timothy’s arrival.

The napkin was neatly folded under the glass, and Magdalene could see the numbers in inelegant swirls, stark, girlish pink on pristine ivory. And for some reason, the chicken scratch, the garish color that had no place among the blacks and reds of their environment, along with the presumption of someone ordering for her—again, since it was two for two in as many days—just made her angry.

So when the woman walked by, quite pointedly in the direction of the ladies’ room, Magdalene neither raised her head to meet the undoubtedly avid eyes, nor followed.

She took a second to delve into her own anger, into this restlessness that was absolutely uncharacteristic for her. Magdalene knew what was expected of her, the rules of the game very well-established: She projected confidence with a touch of arrogance, and women assumed she would follow them into hotel rooms and, in this particular case, a bathroom, push them against doors or walls, or stalls, and fuck them deaf and blind.

On the rare occasion that she obliged, she enjoyed it tremendously. As she glanced after the departing figure, alluring hips swaying farther and farther away from her, she bit her lip and decided she was being too maudlin for her own good. She had to snap out of it. No, she didn’t do this type of thing often. Her life simply didn’t allow for it, but she enjoyed it when she permitted herself the luxury. Tonight, now, was no time for an existential crisis.

When she turned back, Timothy smirked before throwing back his bourbon.

“I have no idea how you do it. And she was your type, too.”

“We have a meeting, Timothy.” Dripping acid from her tongue, angry and discomfited by his flippant attitude and the memories of times long past, she pushed the two glasses away from herself. “And both of us need a clear head for this one.”

He tugged on his tie, and for a moment she thought he would loosen it just to spite her. Instead, he straightened it and gave her a long look.

“You can’t be seriously nervous about this. These men are mad about you. I made inquiries. The school is circling the drain and they are quite desperate.”

Magdalene sighed. Generally, this was true of any institution courting her. They wereallcircling the drain. They were all desperate. Dragons being both should make her ecstatic. After all, the only thing that would make her happier was if the damn place went up in smoke.

And yet…

What was it with her being this melancholy all of a sudden? She wanted to shake herself. She wasn’t exactly a happy-go-lucky type of person—steadywas more how she would describe herself—but she wasn’t prone to bouts of this kind of insipid introspection and melodrama either.

Raised voices from below, a large party being seated in the most prominent place in the dining room, thankfully distracted her from the direction of her thoughts. Next to her, Timothy sat up straighter, and together they watched for a few minutes as the expensively dressed men were handed their menus and chatted while the servers poured wine and spirits.

“Tullinger, Ohno, Roswell Jr. He’s the one who’s resigning, so no clue why he’s even here. I guess as a courtesy to both of us?”

Timothy continued to list the names carefully, inclining his head, and Magdalene followed along until the entire table stood up for a late arrival. An elderly man took his seat, dismissively waving his bony hand at them.

“Stanton Alden—”

“I’m familiar.”