An Heiress to Remember (The Gilded Age Girls Club #3) - Maya Rodale Page 0,31
was now halfway to elegantly ejecting him from her office.
She remained standing behind the desk making every effort to project an unwavering courage of her convictions. She did know she was right. She was just terrified and exhilarated at the same time.
He did not move.
Neither did she.
But Mr. Stevens did not know that if there is one thing women are trained to do, it is to stand still and quiet and let the world rage around them, regardless of the hellfire and agonies they endured. Discomfort was nothing new.
She had lived in discomfort for years; she could wait a few more minutes.
Finally, Mr. Stevens realized that she was firm. Unyielding.
He gave her a withering look that would have made tigers roll over and roses drop their thorns.
“I won’t forget this, sweetheart. And make no mistake, I will make you regret this.” And then he muttered, “Bitch,” on his way out.
The door slammed behind him. It rattled the door frame, it rattled her bones. He rattled her carefully constructed equilibrium.
Beatrice promptly sat down and cried.
These hot tears were not of sadness or fear, but relief. Because she had gone to battle and won. Because she had stood firm and now could be at ease for a moment. She let the tears fall.
She was alone.
After crawling through hellfire and agonies again.
This was the other side.
And here, she sat down and cried.
Beatrice hadn’t cried like this since she stole away from London to meet with solicitors who gave her the news she had desperately hoped to hear: she had a chance in hell of obtaining her divorce. Her freedom. Her future.
That was all she needed, a chance in hell. A long shot was still a shot.
Victory was wet cheeks, heaving sobs. When she was done, she felt lighter and a hell of a lot stronger.
Chapter Fourteen
A ballroom uptown
The following evening
Wes Dalton had waited his entire life for a moment like this, to be on the inside of a ballroom when Beatrice arrived. To be sure, he was still considered “new money” but at least he was in the damned room.
What an impressive room it was, with Old Masters and society portraits clinging to the walls, and crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling. The room was full of women dripping in diamonds and ropes of pearls, gossiping with one another and jockeying for social prominence. Men in stark black-and-white evening clothes stepped onto the terrace to trade stock tips and light imported cigars with flaming hundred-dollar bills.
People were starving in the streets.
Dalton had once been one of them.
He wouldn’t be in this ballroom at all if it weren’t for a little windfall, once upon a time. That, and his hard work and high risks and his ruthless determination to succeed meant he was here. Which meant he was finally worthy of her.
Beatrice.
It was only a matter of time before they came face-to-face near the windows leading out to the terrace.
It felt like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.
“Good evening, Beatrice.”
“Oh, hello, Dalton.”
God, she had a way of saying “oh, hello, Dalton” that somehow belied all they were to each other—former lovers, present competitors, shared owners of a secret history.
“I heard a rumor that you have fired your entire staff,” he said. “Shocking news. One would think it smart to keep the more experienced staff and yet I don’t doubt your intelligence.”
“I haven’t fired the entire staff,” she replied. “Some of the women I have promoted.”
“So it’s essentially true,” he said. “You’re either reckless or ruthless.”
“I’m playing to win. Let that sink in.” She took a sip of champagne and defiantly met his gaze. She was resolute. He was intrigued, in spite of himself. “I would think you’d be rejoicing at what everyone is calling a foolish thing to do, but perhaps you think I’ve made a shrewd move?”
“You might have done something smart,” Dalton replied. “Women do tend to work harder than men and for half the wages.”
“Do you really pay the women in your employ less than the men?”
“How do you think I got to be one of the richest men in Manhattan?” Dalton remarked.
She did not laugh. A man would have laughed.
“Are you actually proud of having earned your fortune off the backs of hardworking, underpaid people? You should know better.”
He felt his temperature flare at the mention of his humble origins, which he had taken care to conceal from most of the people in this room. People who were watching them avidly. The rivalry between them had graced the