Seduce My Father's Rival (completed)

RIVALRY: SLAY ONE

ONE

"You really screwed this one up, Celia. Hudson is officially out of reach. You let him slip away, and now everything you dreamed of is over."

I rolled my eyes, even though my mother couldn't see my face through the phone. I was tired of this speech. I'd heard a variation of it at least three times a week since my childhood friend had gotten married over two years ago.

As for my dreams being over...well, it had been a long time since I'd imagined myself ending up with Hudson Pierce. That was my mother's aspiration, not mine. Not anymore.

There wasn't any use in arguing with her. She found some sort of comfort in lamenting over her daughter's failures, and this particular lament was one of her favorites.

"From what Sophia says, he's even more devoted now to this marriage than he ever was, and I'm not at all surprised. A man will leave a wife easily enough, but when she gets pregnant, forget it. He's sticking around."

I leaned my head against the window of my Lyft car and sighed. "How is Sophia these days?" It was a manipulative redirection on my part. It disgusted me that she pretended otherwise, but Hudson's mother wasn't exactly on friendly terms with Madge Werner like she once was.

Pity.

That was also my fault. Hudson's fault too, not that either of our mothers would ever concede that fact.

I knew my tactic worked when my mother huffed loudly in my ear.

Just as I'd thought. My mother hadn't directly spoken to Hudson's mother about any of this. Likely, she'd picked it up through the grapevine. A friend of a friend or overheard it at a charity luncheon. What else did the rich bitches do these days to keep themselves entertained?

My own methods of amusement certainly weren't of the popular variety. But they were definitely more fun.

Or they once were, anyway. Even The Game had lost its spark in recent years.

"I don't even know why I bother talking to you about this," my mother droned on. "It's your own fault you're not with Hudson."

There was his name again. Hudson. There had been a time when it hurt to hear it. A time when immense agony had wracked through my body at the two simple syllables. That was a lifetime ago now. The bruise he'd left was permanent and yellowed with age, and I pressed at it sometimes, saying his name, recalling everything that had transpired between us, just to see if I could provoke any of those emotions again.

Every time I came up empty.

I owed that to him, I supposed. He'd been the one to teach me The Game. He'd been the one to teach me how to feel nothing. How to be nothing. How ironic that his life today was happy and complete and full.

Good for you, Hudson. Good for fucking you.

My mother was still yammering when the car pulled up at my destination. "You don't even realize how much you gave up when you let him get away, do you? Don't expect to do better than him. We both know you can't."

Indignation pierced through my hollow cocoon; anger in its varied forms was the one emotion that seemed to slip in now and again. My mother didn't know shit about me, no matter how close she perceived our relationship. Couldn't do better than Hudson? God, how I longed to prove her wrong.

But I didn't have any ammunition. I had nothing. I wasn't dating anyone, not really. I had my own interior design company that barely made enough to pay expenses, and I didn't even take a salary for myself. I was a trust fund baby for all intents and purposes, living off my father's business, Werner Media. And while all of my choices were purposeful, I couldn't exactly explain to my mother that the majority of my time and energy was spent on playing The Game. There was no one who would understand that, not even Hudson anymore.

With no comeback, my best bet was to end the call.

"I'm at my meeting. I have to go now, Mom." My tone was clipped, and I brusquely hung up before she could respond.

I gave my driver a digital tip, threw my cell phone in my bag then climbed out of the car. It was hot for early June. Humidity hung like thick cologne, and it clung to me even after I entered the lobby of the St. Regis Hotel. I was running late, but I knew this building from a lifetime of living among the upper crust of New York, and I didn't have to stop to ask for directions. The meeting rooms were a quick elevator ride up one floor to the level that had originally been John Jacob Astor's living quarters. The hotel had been kept in the elegant chic design of his time, and while pompous in its style, I found the luxurious decor both timeless and elegant.

Since I was in too much of a hurry to admire the scenery, I headed straight to my destination. Inside the foyer for the Fontainebleau Room, I paused. The doors were shut. Was I supposed to knock or walk right in?

I was already digging out my phone to text my assistant, Renee, when I noticed a man in a business suit sitting behind a small table at the opposite end of the foyer. He seemed to be deeply focused on the book he was reading and hadn't yet seen me. I didn't know what the man I was meeting with looked like so I couldn't say if this was him or not.

Cursing myself for not being more prepared, I approached him. "Excuse me, I'm Celia Werner, and I'm supposed to-"

The man barely looked up from his reading when he cut me off. "I'll let him know you're here. Have a seat." He propped his book open by placing it face down on the table and then stood and circled around it to the door of the Fontainebleau. He knocked once then opened it, disappearing inside.

Somewhat baffled at the curt greeting, I scanned the foyer and found a bench to sit on. I took out my phone and shot a text to Renee.

Why isn't this guy meeting me at the office again?

I rarely took initial client meetings anywhere else. When Renee had first told me about the appointment, I'd assumed I was being hired by a committee or a board of directors and that they'd requested to interview me as part of a general meeting of some sort. It made sense in that case to go to them rather than the other way around. But something about the vibe of the situation made me start to doubt my first assessment. If there was an entire committee behind the closed doors, why had the man who greeted me said "him"? And wouldn't I have heard voices or people noises when the door had briefly been open?