Chapter 3
Nora
I can’t quite gauge what Bertrand is thinking.
He’s quiet, but his intense and watchful gaze follows me constantly.
I feel self-conscious under his scrutiny.
If I had more confidence, I’d say he’s looking at me more than at the house.
But that seems like wishful thinking, so I focus on the task I came here to do.
The buzz and hum of my phone disrupt the silence hanging in the room. Not very professional to answer it here, so I excuse myself and pull it out of my back pocket. I intend to decline the call and put it on silent. Instead, I stare at the screen in disbelief and confusion.
“Uh… how is this possible? I’m getting a call from you?”
I look up and see a wide grin spread across the face of the man I’ve just spent the last half hour showing around. What’s so funny about this? I don’t get it, and he doesn’t offer an explanation. Maybe I saved the wrong number under Bertrand’s name in my phone? Triggered by curiosity, I answer.
“Hello?” I’m on guard.
“Eleonora, Bertrand here from Immo Clé. I’m calling to let you know that I’m running late.
I wanted to call you earlier, but I hadn’t saved your number beforehand, so it was a bit of a hassle to find it.
I had an emergency, the school called to let me know one of the kids got sick.
My ex couldn’t make it, so I had to rush back and forth to drop my son off at my parents’ place.
Rush… well, not really, there was an accident on the highway, and everything’s at a standstill here.
I’m afraid I won’t make it. I’ve sent my client a few messages to let him know.
I hope you’ve already met him? Andreas De Graeve, CEO of B-Tech. Is he there yet?”
As Bertrand’s explanation unfolds, the puzzle pieces start falling into place, one by one. I thought Andreas was Bertrand, and he, in turn, thought it was funny to make a game out of it.
This moment is crucial for my career. I went out of my way to make a good impression, did my homework thoroughly, and gave it my all—while Mr. De Graeve thought it was amusing to toy with me?
I addressed him as Bertrand, and he didn’t even correct me?
A wave of anger rises in me, stronger than I’d like, but impossible to suppress.
My subconscious self flashes back to the betrayal I felt due to David and that bimbo, with her panties in my washing machine.
Andreas played me completely, and I can’t help but feel humiliated, belittled, and ashamed.
I swore I wouldn’t let this happen again.
I promised myself I wouldn’t feel this way ever again.
I thought I’d gotten better at spotting people who take advantage of my good nature. Apparently not.
Mr. De Graeve is one of those smooth operators who seem to get everything they want: too much money, too many privileges, and the illusion that they can manipulate a woman with the snap of their fingers.
Another piece of the puzzle falls into place.
I’m done with men, especially ones like him.
Not that David was this kind of rich, egocentric guy, but I know the stereotype all too well.
For a moment—just a moment—Andreas had me under his spell.
And for a moment, I thought there might have been something between us.
Maybe that’s why I’m so angry with him right now. It makes it worse.
I was his little amusement for thirty minutes, but that ends right now.
“Andreas De Graeve? Yes, he has indeed arrived. Don’t worry, these things happen. I’ll wrap things up here, and we’ll talk later. Mr. De Graeve didn’t have much time anyway, so we just finished the tour, and he’s about to leave.”
I speak that last sentence and hang up while looking him straight in the eye. The smile has disappeared from his face. I think he got the message. Good.
Or not good? I’m not sure. Is he a serious candidate for this property?
I think so. I’ve definitely heard of B-Tech, a hugely successful software company based in Bruges.
Am I really about to throw away a potential multi-million deal because my pride’s been wounded?
Should I stand by my principles, or swallow my ego and let the deal go forward?
Was what he did truly so bad, or am I just overreacting?
I’m so worked up that I don’t feel capable of answering these questions rationally, but my body makes the decision for me.
I feel a mild panic attack coming on: my ears are ringing, and I start to feel a bit dizzy.
The last thing I want is for him to have to help me breathe into a paper bag, so I stick to my first instinctive reaction.
“I think it’s best if you leave now,” I say with a bit more feigned confidence.
“Nora, are you serious? I really didn’t mean anything bad by it.
You addressed me as Bertrand, and I didn’t get the chance to correct you.
After that, it seemed so awkward to bring it up.
We were having a nice tour, and I didn’t want to ruin it.
I’m genuinely interested in this house,” Andreas replies.
This is the most he has said since we’ve met, and his voice immediately creeps under my skin.
It’s so rich, deep, and velvety. Each word feels deliberate, weaving its way into my thoughts.
It sounds unbelievable after this whole debacle, but his explanation does seem sincere.
Even if I wanted to, I’m not capable of finishing this tour.
I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I don’t want him to see the effect he’s having on me.
Of all the moments in the past two years, my past had to resurface right now.
I’m so angry with myself. I want to be stronger than this, but I can’t, and I don’t want him to notice.
“I suggest you contact Bertrand if you’re interested in the property. We’ll handle everything further if you decide to make an offer,” I say hurriedly, avoiding his gaze.
Instead of waiting for his response, I walk briskly toward the front door.
I open it for him so he can’t misunderstand the message.
I still don’t look at him as he passes me and stops in the doorway.
I feel his gaze on me and the heavy atmosphere between us.
Instead of saying anything, there’s silence for a few seconds.
I notice the tension in his body and hear the irritation in his breathing. Then he leaves.
This doesn’t feel like a relief. I hate conflicts; I always avoid them.
I haven’t had to deal with something like this in years.
I’m the type of person who gets physically uncomfortable if someone cuts in line at the checkout, but ultimately says or does nothing because it’s not worth the argument.
I’m proud that I stood my ground, but I don’t feel better because of it.
He gets into his BMW, slams the door shut forcefully, and then maneuvers out of the parking spot.
With a stern look ahead, jaw clenched, and at a considerable speed, he leaves the property.
He’s clearly furious. I’m not even worth a glance anymore.
I’m so confused. The last half hour of my life has been an emotional roller coaster, and I can’t believe I just let my ultimate chance at professional success drive away.