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“You are. But thanks to the institution of no-fault divorce, you are no longer an ass I have to concern myself with, dear.” She said the words in the most mellow tone possible, both to mollify and to finally move the conversation forward. Their meetings were getting tiresome in their lamentations of the past.
“Magdalene—”
“What is left to say that we have not discussed?” She could hear the tiredness in her own voice, and he knew her better than many, many others in her life. Enough to have sensed this in a way she no longer appreciated, because he reached out that perfectly groomed hand, the three-carat cufflinks—a family heirloom—catching the sunlight in the nearly empty restaurant. She allowed the touch, but only for a moment, drawing a tiny bit of strength from the familiar warmth before shaking it off.
His eyes followed her retreating fingers.
“When I think of how I lost you, Magdalene, how I threw away the best thing that has ever happened to me in my entire, wretched life, everything burns inside of me—”
Magdalene did not bother to suppress her groan.
“Timothy, it’s acid reflux. I’ve told you time and again to get checked for GERD—”
She was expecting more sulkiness because her dry sense of humor didn’t always land with him, but instead, he threw his blond mane back, and his laughter, melodic and charming, filled the restaurant.
“I deserved that one, dearest, for being a jerk twice.” They smiled at each other again, threads of once-sincere affection tangled with pain and betrayal they chose to bury for another time. Or forever, if it were up to Magdalene. She could not be any more finished with him if she were a widow.
He seemed to sense the direction of her thoughts, and after their plates were placed in front of them, he finally reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and offered her an envelope. She took it, more on instinct, trusting him enough to not hand her a proverbial snake.
Perhaps she should have reconsidered her faith in him. Because even though the paper was folded, the crest at the top of the header bled black ink that seemed to seep into her skin. She knew this seal.
Timothy slowly chewed on his steak and eggs, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Magdalene hadn’t unfolded the document he’d so cavalierly placed in her hand.
“Apologies and divorce aside, I’m aware you would prefer to have seen the last of me, but it turns out I’m back in your life, dearest.” He took a small, careful, and somehow genteel sip from his glass of water, and now his eyes shone with a shrewdness she very much recognized. The nonchalance from earlier had vanished entirely. This was business. For all his faults, Timothy Bowbridge Rodante Nox was an excellent and dedicated entrepreneur.
With the paper scorching her fingertips, her breath grew shallow, a feeling not unlike donning a chainmail shirt constricting her chest. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t begin to guess what was to come. But Magdalene did know her thirty years of waiting were up. The black, bleeding ink of the crest told her as much.
At her raised eyebrow, his smile turned into a full-on grin, but he didn’t make her wait any longer. “Joel Tullinger of The Three Dragons Academy for Girls has graciously, and dare I say desperately, extended an invitation for me to become a trustee on the board of the esteemed institution he is heading. I have not yet accepted. However, I have communicated my verbal acknowledgment of the honor being bestowed…”
Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced down at herself. The wound in the center of her chest, that same thirty-year-old injury with its frayed veins and nerves and tendons, gaped open today just like it had all those years ago.
The Three Dragons Academy for Girls… Six words.Dragons.One word, really. One word, yet it consumed everything, the whole world and apparently her sanity, since her Oxford blouse was impeccable and the bralette underneath continued to encase her breasts in lace and satin. There was no wound.
There was no wound.
He gave her a long, thoughtful look, as though discomfited by her silence, before proceeding tentatively.
“This is something you’ve always wanted...”
She laid her fork down with a precise movement, slow and careful, as if she was holding a grenade–one that would explode at any moment and cover her in the essence of those long-forgotten dreams. Were they forgotten? Had she not shoved them down deep enough and made them sufficiently small to fit into the darkest corner of her heart? Hadn’t she done all that? Oh, but who was she lying to now?
“I have wanted things all my life, Timothy. Wanting things is something I excel at. We both know that. It’s the so-called ‘things’ that never seem to want me back, or not in the way I’d like, that is the real problem.”
She hadn’t intended to take another shot at him. After all, he had wanted her, and maybe even in ways that she had wanted him, too, but they’d failed anyway. Yet he was looking at her steadily, either choosing to dismiss the jab, or not taking this particular one personally.
“Well, this time, it’s different. Tullinger and his cronies don’t actually want me, Magdalene. You must understand that. Sure, a name like mine looks great on their current roster, and Rodante is doing amazingly well, even with you no longer there. But despite the prestigious name, dearest, they aren’t after this particular Nox. They want you. I’m their lure, so to speak.”
She narrowed her eyes. That something feral that had coiled in her ribcage earlier, like an animal ready to wake up after years of hibernation, reared its head fully now. And Magdalene felt the tear of its claws. The Dragon, its eyes blazing, was still very much alive. And with it, that very emotion she had been squashing ever since she was a sixteen-year-old kid, banished for nothing more than being who she was, awakened.Hope. On the heels of that wretched, saccharine bit of fanciful foolishness roared the fire.Revenge.
“You are saying…” She let the sentence dangle, words dripping with acid.
“I am saying that several of the trustees are in town. And they would like to meet with you tomorrow. A cocktail party of sorts, as a preview to the more formal interview.”
She wanted to laugh. The games these worthless men played.
“Formal interview? I am courted by four different private schools, half of them richer and the other half bigger than Dragons has ever been. And given the state of that school, an interview—”
“Is an insult.” He calmly finished for her, polishing off his coffee. “They’re well aware, dearest. Hence, I believe, they want me on the board. To persuade you, and to ensure that all these so-called official procedures are just that—formalities.” He winked at her before taking a sip of his water this time, his throat working in the confines of the pristine white, starched collar.
