Chapter 34 Madeline
Madeline
The DuPont estate—this one, was built for inheriting empires and ruining livers. Vaulted ceilings, ancestral portraits, dark velvet lounges, and a constantly roaring fire that made everyone look a little more dramatic than necessary.
Atticus fit the setting perfectly.
Of course he did.
He was Atticus Archibald DuPont, known for women, flawless negotiations, and being called a Prince so often at academy galas that it stuck like a title. He could charm an entire dynasty delegation before breakfast, and then charm their daughters after.
He also did the best impersonation of our fathers I’d ever heard.
Currently, he was pacing in front of the fire with a tumbler in his hand, deepening his voice into something gravelly and authoritative as he reenacted the negotiation meltdown from earlier.
I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my drink.
“Stop,” I wheezed. “He does not sound like that.”
“Elizabeth,” he said solemnly, now switching to his own father’s clipped, “if the Crows insist on acting like… that, then it falls to heirs like you and Archer to restore dignity to the bloodlines.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth. “Atticus—”
“No, no, allow me to continue,” he said, sweeping an arm dramatically. “‘Because apparently, negotiations now require violence, intimidation, and—dare I say it—shirtless criminality.’”
He grinned, dropping onto the sofa beside me, cheeks flushed from liquor and triumph.
We clinked glasses.
The sharp edges of the negotiation room were dulled into something survivable.
Atticus held his liquor well. I… did not. My phone buzzed from across the room.
I ignored it again.
He watched my stillness. “Avoiding it?”
“Yes.”
“Reasonable.” He poured more wine into my glass without asking. “After today, I’d avoid contact with most of the living, too.”
Another buzz.
I stared straight ahead.
Atticus didn’t press. That was the thing about him, he pushed everywhere except the places that mattered. He knew when I needed distraction instead of interrogation.
The chef entered, setting down a plate piled with warm scones, thick cream, and bright red jam.
“Midnight snack,” he said with a respectful bow, as if scones at 12:38 a.m. were completely normal.
Atticus raised a brow.
“I’m craving it.”
He smirked. “That’s hardly new.”
I tore a scone open, ignoring every dynasty rule about dignified eating.
Atticus took one for himself. “Dad always says midnight carbs are a sign of emotional turmoil.”
“Your father eats three pastries before bed.”
“Exactly.” He held up his scone like a toast. “To turmoil.”
I laughed again, softer this time.
It was strangely easy with him.
Comforting even.
Atticus leaned back, stretching his legs out. “So tell me, Elizabeth, how many drinks before you admit that room scared you?”
I stiffened. The answer was written all over me.
The Crows had shaken something loose today. Something that made my breath hitch every time I replayed Vince’s stare in my mind.
My phone buzzed again from across the room. I still didn’t move.
By the time the fire settled, Atticus finally stopped joking. His expression shifted, but undeniably serious.
He sat his empty glass aside. “Maddy, Crows are intimidating. Don’t let today get into your head.” He nudged my knee with his. “You did great. Truly. Your father was proud. And so was I.”
“They’re… terrifying.”
“Good. That means you’re sane.”
I huffed a weak laugh, but he wasn’t finished.
“Crows don’t negotiate, they conquer. Dynasties debate; syndicates dominate; Crows do both at the same time. So every heir gets rattled their first time with them. Every single one.”
I shook my head. “Not me. I didn’t even speak. Normally that room would’ve been my arena. But I stayed silent.”
“And you think I would’ve let you take point in a negotiation with them?”
I blinked at him. I didn’t understand what he meant.
“Maddy… you don’t walk into a room of Crows and lead. You survive. And you get out without having your bloodline rewritten.”
“That’s dramatic,” I muttered.
He gave me a look. “Is it?”
No, it wasn’t. He leaned closer. “I would hate, truly hate, for one of those Crows to see what the rest of us see in you. To see your mind. Your potential. Because they don’t admire talent, Elizabeth.”
“What do they do then?”
He held my gaze. “They take it.”
My breath stilled.
“And I’m rather fond of you not being abducted into a dynasty of terrifying men with questionable ethics and very pretty tattoos.”
Atticus shrugged lightly, his tone changed to that teasing one I was used too.
Despite everything, I smiled.
Atticus winked. “Come on, Elizabeth. Let’s get you to bed.”
I dropped my half-eaten scone down. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve had four glasses of wine and ate jam like it was a coping mechanism.”
“It was a coping mechanism.”
He rose and held out a hand. “Up you get.”
I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then I placed my hand in his. He helped me to my feet and walked me toward the guest wing.
The DuPont guest room was quiet in the way old dynasty estates always were. I rolled over in the enormous bed, and reached blindly for my phone.
I had broken his rules and ignored his messages. I knew I shouldn’t have. I lit the screen up.
Vince Crow
Where are you. Are you safe.
Madeline answer me. Did you eat.
Call me. Please.
Baby, tell me where you are.
Each message stacked on top of the last. Guilt flooded me.
Not because I’d done anything wrong—but because he cared, and tonight… I couldn’t bear it. After seeing who he was in that room.
I swallowed hard, wine and shame mixing together.
There was no anger in his messages. Just Vince, the version of him I knew. But earlier? The man in the negotiation room hadn’t even blinked at me.
I opened a new message. My nightly debrief. Like a good sub.
My fingers hovered over the screen for a long moment before the words rushed out of me in a flood I couldn’t stop.
Madeline:
I had a business meeting tonight.
I ended up drinking almost a whole bottle of DuPont wine.
Then scones with jam.
And now I’m in bed questioning myself.
Tears stung again. The kind you only let out when no one is watching. Everything blurred.
Madeline:
I’m not sure I know you as well as I thought I did.
Or maybe I made up a version of you.
A fantasy that lives in your penthouse.
Because I don’t see you anywhere else.
My throat tightened, breath catching as the truth spilled out in the smallest, ugliest words.
Madeline:
Maybe I don’t know you at all.
Maybe our dynamic is just that, play. A sex weekend every two weeks, and messages in between to keep the fantasy alive.
My vision blurred again, a tear falling onto the pillow.
But I guess it doesn’t matter. In the end I won’t end up as yours and you won’t be mine. I’ll just be a hidden play toy you had for a while, and I’ll lie to myself saying I knew the real you.
My finger hovered.
Just a second. I nearly hit send. Instead I hit delete.
Sent a short message I had a bad headache instead, and would call him in the morning.