Chapter 52 #2
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “My name is Amy Beckett, Mr. Bancroft. And as one business owner to another, I’m here to give you the chance to change your mind and renew my lease before you make things much, much worse for yourself.”
His attention is fully on me now. The amusement is gone, replaced by a cold intimidation that nearly makes me flinch.
“I have to admit, I’ve never been threatened in my own office before.
Let alone by a woman.” He lets out a humorless laugh.
“Take a good look around, sweetheart. We’re far from equal.
The only reason you’re still here speaking to me is because I haven’t thrown you out.
But while you’re here wasting my time, I’ll let you entertain me.
” He leans forward, his expression mocking.
“So, you plan on making my life hell? You and what army?”
The second sweetheart snaps the last tether of my patience. My hand shoots out, slamming onto the petitions. The loud crack echoes in the room.
“Me and this army,” I snarl, leaning into his space.
“Each one of these signatures is a citizen of Madison who despises corporate greed and everything you stand for. You want to be entertained? Let’s play.
” I tap the stack again. “This looks like a small stack of paper on your gargantuan desk. But picture it with me, will you, Mr. Bancroft? Picture one body for every signature, standing outside this building. A crowd so large it will most certainly get media attention. A crowd that will disrupt your life and eat up all your priceless time.”
In the ringing silence, I hear Matthew shift in his seat, quietly clearing his throat. But my focus is entirely on the man in front of me, whose nostrils are now flared, a dull red creeping up his neck.
After a stretch of suffocating silence, Harold nonchalantly reaches out and picks up the top sheet. He glances at it with performative disinterest. Then, his eyes lock with mine, and slowly, he begins to tear the paper in half.
The sound is a violent desecration.
My mind goes blank for a split second. A roar rises in my throat, but I force it back.
I will not let him see me break.
I lift my chin, meeting his cold, triumphant gaze without flinching. “These are copies,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady.
A flicker of annoyance crosses Harold’s face before it’s quickly covered by that same condescending smirk. He picks up another sheet from the pile, holding it up between his thumb and forefinger as if inspecting a flawed diamond.
“These look like originals to me, sweetheart,” he says with false sincerity.
“It’s Amy.” The icy fire inside me burns hotter. “My team digitally scanned every single one,” I lie, but my voice remains even. “They’re all backed up on my computer at the café.”
“Your team?” Harold echoes with a derisive chuckle, looking at the paper in his hand as if it’s a distasteful piece of garbage. “At the café?” Holding my gaze, he rips the second sheet in half.
He might as well have reached across the desk and torn out a piece of my heart.
Before he can reach for a third sheet, a loud sigh of boredom cuts through the air.
My head snaps to Matthew.
“Honestly, Harold,” Matthew says, his tone laced with a cool impatience. “I came here to discuss the zoning variance on the waterfront property, not to watch your theatrics.” He makes a vague, dismissive gesture that includes both me and Harold.
His words cut through Harold’s haze of rage, stilling his hand. “You brought her here.” His furious gaze whips to Matthew.
“She ambushed me in the parking lot,” Matthew lies. The words are so smooth they send a sliver of ice through my heart.
My mouth falls open.
Without sparing me a glance, Matthew leans forward in his chair, his hands steepled on his knees, the very picture of a composed lawyer discussing a minor corporate annoyance.
But then I see it. The tiny muscle ticks furiously in his jaw.
The hard, dangerous light deep in his eyes betrays the calculated indifference in his voice.
“One look at that tall pile of papers she was carrying,” Matthew continues, gesturing dismissively toward my petitions, “and I knew this was about to become a PR nightmare for you. For us. So I brought her up here so we can resolve it. Frankly, Harold, my time and my patience for this pesky matter are running thin.”
I sit back down, my heart pounding.
Harold leans back. His gaze shifts from me to Matthew, his derisive anger taken over by an intensely analytical expression. He brings his fingertips together, forming a steepled cage in front of him.
He is no longer a bully going after an easy target.
He is a predator reassessing a threat.
“You know very well that my PR team is the best in the state. This is nothing,” he finally says, his voice a dangerous purr. He speaks only to Matthew, as if I am no longer in the room.
“I’m not so sure they can do much with this one,” Matthew replies evenly.
“I don’t see how they can stop hundreds of people from picketing this building every day.
Annoying you. Annoying your high-profile tenants.
And don’t even get me started on the narrative this will create.
” He leans back. “The headline practically writes itself: Billionaire Harold Bancroft Evicts Beloved Community Café for Friend’s Luxury Lounge.
The Madison Press will be all over this human-interest story about a local legacy being pushed out to make way for a luxe lounge for the one percent. ”
While listening to Matthew speak, my eyes drift from Harold’s tight features to a framed photo on one of the glass shelves behind him.
“It’s not a good look, Harold,” Matthew continues. “An unnecessary complication that is bad for business. All to appease a friend and pocket a few more thousands a month. And that is assuming you win this.”
Harold scoffs. “I always win, and you know it, Matthew.” But his words don’t land with the same conviction this time.
Matthew starts to counter, “Of course, but how much is—”
“Are those your daughters?” My voice cuts through.
Harold’s frown deepens, his annoyance at my interruption plain.
He doesn’t answer.
“It’s just,” I continue regardless, “while you two were debating PR, my attention was drawn to that photo.” I nod toward the shelf behind him.
“And it made me think about the world that men like you are shaping for young women like them. Like me.” I pause, holding his gaze.
“My father was absent. I can tell you aren’t. ”
I let that sink in, then lean forward. “So I know this for a fact, Mr. Bancroft: when those bright girls look at you, they don’t see your portfolio. They see their father. And one day, they will either be proud of the man you were… or they will be disappointed.”
I let out a sigh of finality. I stand and pick up my stack of petitions, cradling it against my chest. “So here’s a question worth debating…
” I continue to hold his hard gaze. “Is another luxury lounge worth more than their admiration? Or better yet, can any amount of money buy back their respect for you once it’s lost? ”
I don’t wait for an answer. “Thank you for your time.”
And without another word, I turn and walk out, leaving Harold Bancroft and a stunned Matthew in my wake.
The heavy mahogany door clicks shut behind me. For a moment, I just stand there, my back to the wood, the petitions clutched tightly to my chest.
Every instinct screams at me to run.
Instead, I force myself to walk.
I walk down the wide corridor, my gaze fixed on the elevator bank at the far end, passing Janice at her massive desk.
“Have a nice day,” she says, her voice chirpy and professional.
I give her a single, curt nod, not daring to meet her eyes, and continue on.
After pressing the down button, I stand stock-still, staring at my distorted reflection in the polished brass of the elevator doors.
Did I really just say all that?
The elevator arrives with a light chime. The doors slide open. I step inside. The ride down is a blur. I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just hold myself together, my focus narrowed to a single point:
Get. To. The. Car.
The doors open to the dim quiet of the underground parking lot. My heels echo loudly on the concrete. A frantic rhythm. I spot Matthew’s car and make a beeline for it. I reach the trunk and let the heavy stack of petitions drop from my arms. They land with a loud, messy thump on the trunk lid.
And with that sound, the breath I’ve been holding since I walked out of that office finally leaves my lungs in a long, shuddering, ragged exhale.
My shoulders slump. My legs feel like they might give out.
I brace my hands on the metal of the car, drop my head, and whisper to the empty lot.
“Holy shit.”