That diabolical grudge is alive and well, and it’s personal.
So, again, why hire me?
This place has sat vacant for years, collecting cobwebs. There are other preservationists. What’s her real agenda?
Josiah loudly clears his throat, snapping my focus back to reality. “Wrap-it-up.” He masks his laugh with a robust cough, stringing the words together and sending laughter dancing over the crowd.
“Okay, okay. Inconclusion…” I chuckle, pushing up my sleeves. “I hear you, the speech is finally over, but I want to assure you that I’ll take my time with this incredible project—the legendary grand ballroom, library, gardens, conservatory, and rooms—so that the preservation lasts for many generations to come. Thank you.”
“Now, work the shovel, so we can snap the photo and get to the tour,” Dom chimes in.
After the Bridges Heritage plaque is unveiled and the pictures taken, I greet and shake hands with the community, thanking each person for coming out today. The entire time I’m sending them off for a light continental breakfast and mimosas, though, my attention is locked on Cornelia’s whereabouts.
It’s something about the way she moves, poised but deliberate, like she’s always a step ahead, watching, weighing the moment before she strikes, that unsettles me.
Until she saunters in front of me in a cloud of rich, woodsy perfume.
“Congratulations, Mr. Bridges,” she says, her soft voice calculated, rehearsed. Her dark, assessing gaze skitters over my skin, the taut corners of her mouth threatening a smile that never appears.
Oh, she wants me here about as muchas she wants a tax audit.
The realization buoys within me, easing the tension inside.
“Thank you, Mrs. Livingston. I, uh, wasn’t aware you’d be joining us today…” I grin, suppressing a laugh.It is killing you toeven look at me, isn’t it?
But then she lifts her sharp chin barely an inch, and there it is, a genuine smile from a woman who lives by a “never let ’em know your next move” mantra. Her obsidian eyes widen with false surprise, and the calm veneer cracks. Just that fast, the mask slips.
“Of course I’m here. It’s my building…” She lets the rest of her thought dissolve on her tongue, and I’ve got no doubt it’s a deliberate choice. The niceties and pleasantries are all but done. It’s pomp and ceremony. A reminder of our roles. She’s the owner; I’m merely the contracted hand here to do her labor. What’s more, I’m sure she wants me to consider the possibilities of how she’ll make my life hell for the next six to twelve months.
It’s just bait,I tell myself.
Cornelia Livingston doesn’t like being told no. Not by the city, and for damn sure, not by a Bridges. Every word, every gesture, is a test. She’s waiting for me to slip, to reveal something she can use, something she can turn against me.
Widening my stance again, I shift on my feet, letting the dirt beneath my work boots anchor me.
“A pleasant surprise,” I say, determined to remain professional.This is about Madison Manor.“I’ve got my team ready to start next week. I’m looking forward to getting this project underway.”
Your move.
If I’d looked away for even a second, I might’ve missed her barely perceptible smile.
“Well, now, that’s why I’m pleased we’ve got a moment to speak.” The sunlight flits between the sharp angles of her face, illuminating her in just the right way to make her seem…predatory. “Since we finalized the contract, there’s been a new development,” she says, then tacks on, almost gleefully, “Of sorts…”
It’s taunting. And yet I refuse to bite.
Instead, I nod, my eyebrows drawing together. Because “She’s fuckingwith me on day one?! You’ve got to bekidding me” doesn’t feel like the right response—at least not here. I settle on, “Interesting.”
It’s toohot for all this.
“Indeed, Mr. Bridges.”
I shift on my feet, still unsure where this is headed, but secretly hoping this “new development” means less interference from her with the restoration. The last thing my team and I need is to be micromanaged.
Cornelia straightens, centering her gaze on me as she paints the picture for me in broad, vivid strokes. “Family and friends gathered the weekend before last to celebrate my son, Donovan’s, engagement,” she explains, her voice smooth but carrying an edge of something else. She goes on about the event at Velvet Ember, a sleek, high-end restaurant that’s quickly becoming the center of Ellswood’s social scene. Then she lists off the attendees like a roll call, including Donovan’sprivilegedfiancée, Hailey Winston, whose dream wedding venue just so happens to be Madison Manor.
“Of course,” Cornelia adds, the corners of her lips curling with satisfaction, “as the owner and an important member of this city’s upper echelon, I thought it would be fitting for my son’s wedding to be the first event on the property.”
A nepo-christening.
