Page 43 of Tender Offer (Chance at Love #3)
Madison
Present Day
I never read The Art of War. I don’t fully grasp the philosophies of battle. But I did watch The Karate Kid growing up, and striking first without mercy is what I intend to do.
My snake print heels glide across hardwood in a calculated march to the executive suite.
At dinner last night, Bellamy batted her lashes and laughed down memory lane with Preston and William like I wasn’t there.
Her attempts to talk around me were as petty as her inching closer to brush his shoulder and tell jokes that would get her booed off a stage.
Preston and I got into it on the ride back to the penthouse. He still thinks Bellamy choosing me as her stylist is a coincidence. I can’t prove it, but I know calculated when I see it.
The fact that she went to such lengths to cozy up to me is disgusting and trifling. It’s not a coincidence she booked a consultation and pretended to be friendly to get updates about Preston. I never told her his name—not that I needed to with the games she was playing.
Now it makes sense why she was glaring at me at Ravenous. I didn’t know I was with Preston, but she did.
Research into prospective clients only goes so far.
There are no social security numbers or tax returns.
Bellamy was vague about her “financial consultant” work, which I now know is her role as CFO.
Preston’s company website doesn’t post headshots, not that I would’ve thought to look.
And besides, she admitted to using her first and middle name.
Like I said, calculated.
Desperation and merlot were both plentiful last night. Bellamy couldn’t contain her jealousy whenever Preston held my hand or kissed me. It’s clear they’re close, and it’s clearer she wants to break free from the friend zone he keeps her in.
The perk of being a recovering mean girl is the ability to spot ulterior motives. Game recognizes game, and I’ll dance in the gutter with the best of them.
Make no mistake, Preston is mine. His heart, his moans, and that dick. We might not have a title, but I’ll be damned if Ms. Prim and Proper Pantsuit thinks she’ll play in my face.
The Donnelley Brand’s Paris office has Bellamy’s name all over it. The gaudy chandeliers and ornate gold molding scream, Look at me! Who the hell needs cherub wall sculptures lurking in the corner?
“May I help you?”
Next to a black fireplace is a gilded desk where a woman sits wearing a collared dress and a deep scowl. Beady black eyes slide up my sheer black panty hose to the high-waist shorts peeking out from underneath my blazer.
She can wield her Viola Swamp nose, daggered brows, and pointed chin at someone else. My outfit is an office edit inspired by the runway. I look damn good.
“I’m here to see Mr. Donnelley. I have an appointment.” Squeezing myself into Preston’s schedule today took a special conjuring of patience.
She reaches for her phone. “I’ll need to clear it with Ms. Kidwell.”
“I have an appointment.”
“And I need to clear it with Ms. Kidwell,” she grits through veneers and flips her black hair over her shoulder. There’s something she mumbles in French about Americans being rude.
The nerve.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m—”
“Madison.”
Bellamy saunters over to Cruella’s desk and smirks at the older woman. With a streak of gray and red lips, she’s still watching me like I pissed her off for breathing. It wouldn’t surprise me if she skins Dalmatian puppies for fun.
“I’ll take care of her, Rosalind,” Bellamy says, her eyes trained on me. “This way.”
She leads us down a hallway with more obnoxious chandeliers. Black and white photos of Donnelley properties framed in gold line a wall across from a bank of windows.
We reach a white door with a gold plaque bearing Bellamy’s name. She motions for me to enter.
“Have a seat.” She shuts the door and nods to the cream chair across from her glass desk. Wall molding extends from the floor to the ceiling with matching panels. Unlike the rest of the building, it’s cozy, homey, with beige drapes and furnishings.
“I’ll stand. Where is Preston?”
“Busy working.” Bellamy leans against her desk and crosses her bare legs at the ankles. The mini skirt hugging her narrow waist flashes slim thighs. “How can I help you?”
“You can’t.” I cut my eyes at her with a fake smile she returns.
Bellamy lifts one shoulder, picking an imaginary piece of lint from the houndstooth blouse molded to her breasts. A nipple will pop out if she breathes the wrong way.
“Like I said, Madison. Preston is busy.”
“I’ll wait. Like I said, I have an appointment.”
Her grin spreads. “About that.” She pushes off the desk and takes slow steps into my personal space.
I’m not violent by nature, but I feel the temptation to let my hands go.
“I took the liberty of removing you from his schedule.” What?
“He has a lot on his plate here in Paris. The call he’s on now will last for most of the afternoon.
Then we have a dinner reservation with a client. But I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
It occurs to me that Bellamy has never seen Preston in love. She’s been a mainstay, which explains why she’s so protective over him.
That, and she’s a bitch.
“You’re stunning. More beautiful than anyone I’ve seen him with.” My frown curls the corners of Bellamy’s mouth upward. “Enjoy him while it lasts. They never do.”
“Mmm.” I nod. “Tell me something. Does it get cold lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to see you? I was that delusional once. While we’re sharing advice, here’s a tip: Fall in love with someone who will actually love you back.”
All pleasantries fade. The anger she suppressed now flushes her ivory complexion. Her chin sets in a stubborn line, and her high cheekbones go hollow on a deep exhale.
This is who I wanted to see.
Preston and William don’t pick up on the games she plays, but I do, and now she’s showed her hand. I believe Bellamy cares for Preston. I also believe she thinks he’ll wake up one day and realize he wasted years not choosing her.
He made his choice; she’s looking at it.
Not that he’s ever mentioned her outside of a professional setting. This little display is a last stand out of fear.
“You’ll never be what he needs.” Venom drips from her blood red lips.
“And you’re pitiful for pretending to be someone you’re not,” I snap.
“I took a page from your book,” she scowls. “Aren’t you the same person who lied about who she was so she could take another student’s place because she was too poor to afford it on her own? You don’t belong with him, or with us. Consider this payback for the hurt you caused him.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”
“Don’t I?” Bellamy steps closer. “Who do you think was there for him and will be once this ends?”
My stomach curdles at the implication of them together, but I keep my chin and my top knot firm.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” I say. “I’ll see him when he comes home, to me .”
“Don’t wait up,” Bellamy counters, envy smoothing her tone. “I look forward to us spending more time together. Me and Preston’s friendship is as old as you are, and it isn’t going anywhere.”
Bitch .
“Mr. Donnelley is unavailable. Would you like to leave a message?”
Answer your damn phone.
“No, thank you. That won’t be necessary,” I say to a woman who isn’t Cruella. “When do you expect him back?”
“He left with Ms. Kidwell. Have a good evening.”
The last message I sent Preston never reached him. It was an “oversight,” along with the bad habit he’s developed of leaving his phone on airplane mode.
I don’t want to call him a liar, but somebody is full of shit.
Since we came to Paris, Preston has been inaccessible. He’s out of bed at an ungodly hour and tiptoes in closer to midnight. The conversations we do have between his meetings are brief. So are the texts he sends asking about my day and apologizing for his absence.
I’m not a clinger who needs proof of life at the top of every hour, but I won’t tolerate disrespect or be played a fool for the sake of love. For me, trust is given until it’s revoked. Preston says he’s underwater with work, and I’ll believe him until proven otherwise.
But I won’t pretend his early mornings and late nights with Bellamy don’t sting. It’s only been a few days since our showdown in her office, which left me in the dark and on read. She’s probably off somewhere gloating in designer heels.
The sigh I release buckles my lungs. The heaviness is a blip under the weight of an empty penthouse that’s become a storage locker of past love and current frustration.
I rub my palms over my eyes, exhausted from mentally scrolling through scenarios that end in a broken heart or with Preston’s body at the bottom of the Seine.
Bellamy has been a part of his life since they were kids—thirty-eight years, she so graciously reminded me. That’s a lifetime. With their work dynamic, it’s sensible for a CEO to spend time with the CFO.
Maybe they left the office to meet another business partner for dinner. Maybe there’s a work event Preston failed to mention.
I’m always three steps ahead.
“We are not this girl,” I tell myself on my way to the kitchen for a glass of wine and an eclair.
I’m a lover, not a fighter with a mean cut-off game. At least, I was before Preston. No man would have me worrying a hole into an antique rug at seven p.m. on a Saturday.
Preston has worked late before, but not like this. It’s never been this hard to reach him.
I never wanted to be the person waiting by the phone like I have for the last few days. Yet, here I am, with no plans or business of my own that’s worth trading in my loungewear.
These feelings—fear sloshing with anger—are why I’m not in a rush to commit my heart to the potential of being broken again.
With another exhale, I grab the ingredients for my pity party of one and go into Preston’s home office to play The Oregon Trail . Alone.