Chapter 52
FIFTY TWO
NOTHING FEELS RIGHT.
Nothing feels powerful enough.
I stand in the middle of the guest room in my underwear, staring at the selection of clothes I’ve set out on the bed. The peaceful bubble of yesterday has popped, replaced by the high-stakes reality of what lies ahead. This isn’t just a meeting; it’s the fight for my future. For Mary’s legacy.
I need to look like a woman who can win.
After trying on and discarding three other options, I finally settle on a pair of sleek, navy blue slacks and a cream-colored silk blouse.
The tie-neck that feels both feminine and authoritative.
I tuck it in, cinch a thin belt around my waist, and slide my feet into heels, hoping they grant me a confidence I don’t actually feel.
A quick look in the mirror confirms it’s the right choice.
“Amy? We need to leave, love,” Matthew’s voice calls from the bottom of the stairs.
A fresh jolt of panic hits me. “Sorry!” I call out, grabbing my navy purse. “Coming!”
I hurry out of the room and rush toward the main staircase, my speed limited by my heels. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I mutter in a string of apologies.
“Hey, stop.” Matthew commands softly. His hands rise to grip my arms, stilling my frantic descent as I practically hop off the last step.
He’s dressed in a perfectly tailored navy blue suit that matches my trousers, a matching silk tie, and a crisp light blue shirt. He looks powerful, handsome, and impossibly calm. The very picture of confidence.
“I’m sorry, I got carried away picking the right outfit,” I say, my breath catching.
“That’s okay. Stop for a second. Breathe.” His eyes are full of an unwavering understanding that melts some of the tightness in my chest.
He doesn’t glance at his watch. He doesn’t offer a single word of impatience. He simply waits, his thumbs stroking my arms, until my breathing evens out.
“I know you’re nervous, love. But you are not walking into this alone.” His gaze intensifies, a fierce protectiveness flickering within his green eyes. “I will be right there with you. Okay?”
I look into his kind, sincere eyes, and the knot in my chest finally begins to loosen. I take the deep breath he asked for and give him a small, grateful nod.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay,” he repeats, giving my arm a final, reassuring squeeze. “Let’s go.”
Once we’re buckled in and pulling out onto the street, I start twisting the strap of my purse in my lap. I stare out the window, watching the familiar streets go by, but I don’t really see them. My mind is already in that office, standing before the man who holds my future in his hands.
Beside me, I feel Matthew’s gaze on me for a moment before it returns to the road. A second later, his free hand leaves the steering wheel and covers mine where they are clenched together. His thumb strokes soothing circles over my tense knuckles.
“You’ve got this, love,” he says softly.
I turn to look at him, and he gives me a quick, confident smile before focusing back on the traffic.
“A little heads-up on Harold,” he begins, his tone shifting.
“He’s old-school. All business. He doesn’t like flattery.
He has no time for games. He can seem cold, but what he respects more than anything is directness.
” He glances at me again, his expression serious but encouraging.
“So don’t try to be anything but yourself.
Speak from the heart. Let him see your passion. ”
I nod, his words quieting the buzzing in my veins.
Matthew drives into the underground parking lot of a sleek tower of glass and steel. He finds a spot and turns to me, his hand still covering mine. “Ready?”
I take one final, fortifying breath and give him a determined nod. “Ready.”
He smiles, a silent acknowledgment of my courage, before we get out of the car.
I can do this.
The air in the underground lot is cool and still. Matthew retrieves the heavy stacks of petitions from the backseat, holding them securely between his hands as we walk to the elevator.
The ride up is silent. The only sound is the delicate chime announcing each floor. The mirrored walls reflect a distorted version of us: a man in a power suit holding a large stack of papers, and a woman who looks far more composed than she feels.
The doors slide open onto a vast, silent reception area.
Polished marble floors reflect the cold, recessed lighting from above.
A massive, modern desk sits before a towering wall of glass with a panoramic view of downtown Madison and the glittering expanse of Lake Monona.
Behind it, a perfectly poised woman looks up at us with a calm, professional gaze.
Matthew, clearly unfazed by the opulence, walks us forward. “Morning, Janice. Is he in?”
“Yes, Mr. Warren. He’s waiting for you.” Her gaze drifts to me for a fraction of a second before she gestures toward a set of sleek leather chairs. “Please have a seat. I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
We sit. The silence in the waiting area feels heavy, expensive. I clasp my purse tightly to stop my hands from shaking. Matthew sets the petitions securely in his lap and reaches over, his hand covering mine.
“He’s just a man, Amy.” He leans closer, so only I can hear. “A ruthless businessman, yes. But he’s also a husband and a father.”
“A father?”
Matthew nods. “Twin girls. Heading off to university in a few weeks.”
Before I can say anymore, a chime sounds from the receptionist’s desk.
“Mr. Bancroft will see you now.”
Janice leads us down a wide corridor, the patterned carpet swallowing the sound of my heels. She stops before a pair of towering mahogany doors and gives us a polite smile.
“Mr. Bancroft is just finishing a call, but he said you can go on in,” she informs us before turning to walk away.
Matthew gives my hand one last, firm squeeze. He reaches for the heavy handle, pushing one of the doors open and holding it for me.
I take a deep breath and step into the lion’s den.
The office is far more intimidating than anything I had pictured in my mind.
A cavern of muted tones, rich leather, and polished marble, dominated by a desk so large it looks more like a modern monolith than furniture.
This room is designed to make a person feel insignificant.
As I walk toward the two leather chairs placed like an offering before the throne, that is exactly how I feel.
Insignificant.
And there, behind the desk, is Harold Bancroft.
His salt-and-pepper hair is perfectly styled, his suit impeccably tailored. He’s leaning back in his chair, phone pressed to his ear, his expression one of intense concentration. He sees us enter, but his sharp eyes show no flicker of acknowledgment.
Matthew, unruffled, places the heavy stacks of petitions on the low table between the chairs and gestures for me to take a seat.
I sink into one of the leather chairs, my back ramrod straight.
Bancroft speaks one final, terse command—“Get it done”—and ends the call, placing his phone down on the desk.
He looks up, his gaze landing on Matthew. “Morning, Matthew.”
“Good morning,” Matthew replies, smoothing his hand down his tie as he seats himself in the other chair.
Harold’s eyes slide to me, narrowing slightly, his jaw tightening. “I didn’t realize it was bring-your-assistant-to-work day.”
I feel my cheeks flush, but Matthew’s voice cuts in, cool and smooth as the marble on the desk. “Harold, this is Amy Beckett. She’s not my assistant. She’s the owner of the café Maddy’s Place.”
My heart hammers so hard I can feel its beats in my throat, but I push myself up from the chair. I step to the edge of his desk, and extend my hand across the vast expanse. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Bancroft,” I say, my voice stronger than I feel.
Harold just sits there. He looks from my outstretched hand up to my face, his expression as cold as the polished stone between us. An extended, deliberate moment of silence passes. My hand remains in the air, but he refuses to acknowledge my gesture, pinning me with his frigid stare.
“A pleasure?” He finally speaks but doesn’t move a muscle. “That explains why you’re in my office without an appointment. My time is priceless, Miss. This is anything but pleasurable.”
His insult is a cold, calculated slap.
The dismissal in his eyes, the refusal to grant me the simple dignity of a handshake, makes something hot and familiar coil in my gut.
The same casual cruelty. The same entitled arrogance I knew with James.
And just like that, my nervousness burns away.
Leaving a cold fire that’s been waiting years to ignite.
I retract my hand.
“Alright,” I say, my voice as icy as his glare. “Let me get to the point then.”
I turn, pick up the tall stack of petitions and let it drop. It lands on his desk with a resounding thud that shatters the opulent silence.
Harold’s eyes flick to the pile with deep exasperation, then to Matthew, ignoring me completely. “This is what you bring into my office?”
Before Matthew can even straighten in his seat to reply, I step forward. I plant my hands on the edge of the desk, reclaiming Harold’s attention. “Funny,” I say, my voice sharp and clear. “I thought a businessman as successful as yourself would have mastered basic communication.”
His eyes narrow on me. “Excuse me?”
“I addressed you. Proper etiquette dictates that you address me in return. But instead, you addressed Mr. Warren, who isn’t part of this conversation. Surely a man in your position knows better.”
A derisive chuckle rumbles from Harold as he leans back in his throne-like chair, looking at me with undisguised amusement. “You’re giving me a headache, sweetheart.”
The word hits me like a lit match on gasoline.
Sweetheart.
The same condescending term James used to make me feel small.