A Fire Like This (Mature Jocks Series #5)

2. HELLO, MADAM BEAUFORT

poison ivy [noun] a North American climbing plant that causes painful spots on the skin when you touch it.

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"What's your name, child?" The beautiful woman asked. It was 'take me home' day and we were all dressed in pretty clothes. She looked completely different, her skin color was very different from mine. She was light, I'd never seen anyone so bright. Closed doors, small meals, were all I had. She'd just asked me my name. I never thought about names. I didn't have a name.

"I don't got one." I told her. Her eyes squinted and she raised a brow at me. She stared me down, like she could see into my soul, but really she was probably just deep in thought.

"Ivy." She said after a few minutes. Ivy sounded pretty, wait, was she naming me? She smiled, she looked.......pleased.

"Ivy?" I asked.

"Like the plant, Poison Ivy. Yes, Ivy." She explained.

I walk into Astor Courts, greeted by opulent elegance. Rich mahogany furniture complements the subtle cream walls adorned with intricate molding. Soft, golden lighting bathes the room, enhancing the plush upholstery of the antique chairs. The air carries a faint scent of polished wood, creating a timeless atmosphere within this grand space.

The dining room exudes a stately grace, with a long, mahogany table serving as the centerpiece. Gleaming silverware and fine china rest upon crisp, white tablecloths, while crystal glasses catch the light. Overhead, an imposing chandelier bathes the room in a soft radiance, setting the stage for refined gatherings. Tall windows reveal a manicured garden, offering a serene backdrop to the symphony of clinking cutlery and hushed conversations that grace this elegant space.

Madam Beaufort sits opposite me on the dining table. Hibiscus tea-her favorite, was served for both of us and she hadn't said anything since I'd arrived.

I was four minutes late. Intentionally.

In her late fifties and a woman of exquisite style and elegance, Charlotte Beaufort is a woman of many talents. A master in golf, taekwondo, karate, yoga, pilates, barre, ballet, the piano, the violin and many more unbelievable skills, she made me into a 2.0 version of herself.

She was my favorite person once upon a time. In the past twenty years we've met on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Sometimes it was silent dinners, some nights were for scolds and earfuls, some were for training to become a perfect woman. Charlotte Beaufort was obsessed with perfection and when it wasn't achieved, she was deadly quiet.

Like now.

I watch as she sips her tea all too quietly, avoiding my gaze, but completely aware of it. She orders the servants to get rid of the cups and they do so quietly. I watch her for more minutes and she doesn't say anything, and well, I take that as my cue to leave.