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.
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 secondsweetheartsnaps 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 yourpricelesstime.”
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.”
