“Oh Madison,” Alexander said quietly, looking at me with what could only be interpreted as fondness, “I’ll keep my end of the deal. You know I’ve always tried to be honest as possible with you, even if you think I’m awful. And I realize I’ve said this before, but you really are cute when you’re upset.”
“Fuck you.”
Unable to continue this conversation without giving myself an ulcer or an aneurism or some other stress related injury, I shook my head and walked out the room. The stupid office had no door for me to slam; it was just an open doorway. I was shaking with anger. I stomped loudly through Alexander’s super modern, incredibly stylish entry hall, attempting not to listen to his reply. He always had to have the last word.
His beautiful baritone voice reaches my ears anyway, “Fuck me? We’ll definitely get to that again soon, I promise. But you really should hurry to pick up your friend now. I’m sure she will be interested in my proposed revisions, too.”
11
Alexander
The dress was perfect for Madison. It was a sophisticated shade of marine blue that was a nice contrast to her pale white skin and dark hair. The dress hugged her heavy, ample tits tightly, pushing them up and together with a corset-looking top that nipped in at her narrow waist before flaring out at her hips and falling to the floor in long column of silk that somehow made her look tall. I didn’t know a damn thing about dresses, but I knew plenty about women’s bodies, and this dress accentuated Madison’s assets in the best way possible. I would have to send a thank you email to the shopper at Neiman Marcus who chose it.
She’d handed me the box containing the necklace when she got in the car, but she wore the earrings I picked. They were big, covered in sparkly diamonds, and dangly. I don’t claim to be an authority on women’s accessories any more than their apparel; these were the first earrings I’d ever bought for a woman who wasn’t my mother. But the lady at the Cartier store said that these kinds of earrings looked nice on women with long necks and delicate shoulders. She was right.
The only thing missing from Madison’s ensemble was a smile. She sat next to me in my beloved, cherry red 1961 Ferrari 250 GT California Spider like she was headed to the gallows. Staring straight ahead, she hadn’t said a word since I escorted her from the door to the car. The drive wasn’t long but spending the entire time in silence was a bit uncomfortable. Madison hadn’t even asked where we were going.
“I’m sorry if you’re angry with me,” I told her honestly as I drove us into the heart of Philadelphia, “I don’t want you to be. This was the only way I could be sure you would come.”
She turned to look at me like I’d just said something ridiculous, shaking her head and then sighing.
“I don’t understand what you want from me, Alexander. I’m here to advise on the humanitarian aspects of this deal. That’s my only job. Yesterday was a terrible day for me and I made a bad, impulsive decision to sleep with you, but what’s done is done. Why can’t we just try to have a regular, professional relationship for the next few days? I think that’s best for both of us.”
“Do you regret having sex?” I asked her bluntly. I’d been worried about this all day. The idea that I somehow hurt her had been weighing heavily on my mind. The look she gave me before she left her office last night—right after the afterglow faded and she got scared—I never want to see that look again. It was a mixture of exhaustion and what I later realized was self-loathing. The fact that I’d made her feel that way was upsetting.
“Not really,” she said as if thinking through her decision for the first time, lifting my spirits momentarily, “I regret having sex with you.”
Ouch.
Oh god.
I wished she had said anything else but that.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, watched my knuckles turn white, and tried not to display any emotion. If there’s one way to wound a man’s pride and self-esteem, it’s to imply a lack of sexual ability.
No woman had ever suggested such a thing to me before, and I was utterly horrified to learn that I’d failed to make her happy. She had given me more pleasure than I deserved last night, although I wished her passion had been directed entirely toward me instead of motivated primarily by revenge on Cunt-face.
What if I hurt her? Made her uncomfortable or sad? Had I been too fast or too rough? Too slow? Not rough enough? And to fail to please with Madison of all people…
“Don’t get me wrong,” Madison was continuing in a painfully matter of fact voice, oblivious to the inner monologue that she had triggered inside my own head, “the sex itself was phenomenal. It’s just that you’re a complete jerk. You and I don’t have the capability of having even a polite, pleasant, adult conversation. We aren’t friends and never could be. Usually I don’t sleep with people I can’t stand, you see.”
I was ridiculously relieved about the sex, but of course she hadn’t noticed my panic in the first place. Still, what she was saying was at least as disturbing, although in a completely different way. It wasn’t even accurate. She had never seen me being charming and pleasant, I supposed. I’d never shown her anything but my worst. She wouldn’t despise me after tonight, I promised myself firmly.
I wanted Madison to like me. This was a new thing for me. My past relationships with women (if ‘relationship’ was even the right word) were brief and built on a foundation that was purely physical. So long as the sex was good and the conversation wasn’t awful (or if the sex was incredible and the conversation was at least brief), the other aspects of attraction had historically been completely unimportant to me. When the woman didn’t like me anymore, she would simply leave and I’d find someone else. Likewise, I’d unceremoniously dump her if I got tired of her first. Feelings of any kind took a backseat.
This was different. While I admitted to myself it was a holdover from a childish infatuation, there was nothing I could do to fight it. The idea that Madison might not enjoy spending time with me outside the bedroom was suddenly of paramount importance.
“Of course, we can have a normal conversation,” I replied confidently as we approached our destination, “We’ll get along just fine tonight, you’ll see.”
Madison’s face betrayed her emotions, as always. She thought I was full of crap. No matter, I told myself confidently, soon she would change her mind.
The benefit was being held at the Ritz Carlton in downtown Philadelphia. The valet took the car efficiently, and Madison played her role as my arm candy without comment or complaint. We made our way inside, and I studied her face carefully as she got her first look at where I’d taken her.
The Tiffany Durant Basket Event was a fundraiser that my mother had first put on in the early nineties when she was still a member of the Junior League. It had begun relatively modestly, but it had grown each year until it was one of the biggest and most important events on the social calendar for the ultra-wealthy. Still, it wasn’t a flashy or highly publicized event. It was a quiet, modest gathering with a minimum of grandstanding, insomuch as something like this could be quiet and modest. I’d not attended since my mom died, and I was genuinely impressed by how many Fortune 50 faces turned to greet us as we entered the crowded ballroom.
“A silent auction?” Madison asked me in a whisper, holding onto my arm with hands that felt more dutiful than affectionate.
“Yes,” I replied to her, smiling as nicely as I could manage, “I want you to pick a lot for me. You pick the best one, tell me why it’s better than the others, and we’ll bid on it until I win. Sky’s the limit.”
She looked at me incredulously as I grabbed us a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and offered her one. I could tell that she didn’t trust me. Not yet. She wasn’t sure yet whether I was being honest or was going to somehow trick her. I smiled reassuringly at her. She took the champagne flute with uncertainty, giving me a tightlipped smile in return.
We made the rounds for a bit, nibbling on crudités and greeting the other attendees. Next to me, Madison smil
ed graciously and laughed at the lame jokes of various magnates and billionaires like it was something she did every day. I knew she was an expert at these sorts of events, but I doubted she’d ever been on the other side of one.
“Why did you bring me here?” Madison asked when we broke away from the crowd at last, “You’ve made it clear that you don’t give a shit about charitable efforts. You told me just this morning what your aims were.”
She took a careful sip of her champagne as she waited for an answer. Her expression was guarded but not inscrutable. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she looked for an ulterior, manipulative angle to my plan.
“This was my mother’s pet benefit,” I explained to her, gesturing at one of the many banners bearing her name to drive my point home, “You probably don’t remember her, but she cared a lot about charity. Even now, ten years after her death, my dad still makes sure this event happens each year. In my business, you’re right; I don’t care about anything else but making money and building cool shit. Charity isn’t compatible with what I do on a daily basis. I’d go out of business really quick if I wasn’t pragmatic. But this is different. It has nothing to do with my business. It’s entirely personal. Will you help me pick something to bid on? I’m going to show you that I’m a person and not a monster, and you can show me how to be a good philanthropist.”
Madison still looked a bit incredulous but I could tell that she was beginning to believe that I was serious about bidding. She led us over to the auction tables, pausing in front of the first basket. It was a petite pink wicker basket in the shape of a ballet slipper. It contained a set of two season tickets to a ballet company in New York, along with gift certificates for coordinated hotel stays and dining options. The beneficiary of the basket was Doctors without Borders. According to the clipboard, the current bid was four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Next to me, I could almost feel the quality of Madison’s silence shift from mild interest to total fascination.
She moved over to the next basket. It was fishing themed and contained rods, reels, nets, a hideous camouflage hat, and a big green tackle box. The beneficiary was BRAC, the Bangladesh Rural Advancement Committee. Current bid? Five hundred thousand dollars.
I was pleased that the quality of the actual baskets hadn’t improved at all over the years. They were still uniformly terrible, totally unpredictable in value, and in no way coordinated with the causes they benefited. The silly prizes were part of the charm of the event.
“How long is the auction?” Madison asked me, now barely concealing her excitement. The hundreds of little, sparkling diamonds in her earrings were less brilliant than Madison’s eyes as she contemplated her strategy.
“It goes for another hour and a half,” I told her. She nodded, moving to down the line to examine the next few baskets. When I didn’t immediately follow, she grabbed my hand and pulled me after her excitedly. Touching me without recoiling? This was definitely progress.
“You really don’t care how much I spend?” Madison asked again, raising her eyebrows as if to challenge me to put her on a budget.
“Not at all. I don’t care. Pick one and do your worst,” I replied.
Madison grinned. There was an impish, mischievous edge to her smile that I’d never seen before. It was cute, but I wondered vaguely if I’d made a mistake.
“You really shouldn’t have said that,” she said with mock-seriousness, “I could bankrupt you in here.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
12
Madison
It was a very pretty party. Maybe the prettiest that I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of pretty parties thrown to separate rich people from their money. I was getting increasingly excited about the prospect of separating Alexander from some of his. It wasn’t ever enough for the super-rich to donate money to a good cause, you see. They had to be appropriately lubricated in a safe, exclusive environment while being constantly congratulated and celebrated for their largesse.
“Madison?” A semi-familiar voice called to me across the table form the basket I was examining, “Is that you?”
The woman didn’t immediately register in my memory. She was my age, had blondish hair, brown eyes, and tan skin. She was dressed in a plain black, long-sleeved gown. We stared at one another for a moment until belated recognition flickered through me.
“Danielle?” I asked, “Wow. Hi! How are you doing?”
Danielle and I had been friendly acquaintances and sometime rivals in law school at Columbia. Like me, she was drawn to the world of humanitarianism. Over the years we’d competed for various clerkships, not to mention jostling for position on the bell curve. She’d beaten me soundly most of the time, not that I resented her for it. Much.
“Living the dream,” Danielle said to me, smiling wide, “I’m an assistant general counsel with Doctors Without Borders. Doing the benefit thing tonight. Like you, I bet. What organization are you with?”
“I actually work for a really small NGO called Lifebuild, not represented here tonight, unfortunately. We’re not top fifty like most of these. Congratulations on your position with DWB. That’s really prestigious.”
She inclined her head in appreciation, but I could see confusion on her face as she took in my Alexander McQueen dress and over-the-top Cartier earrings that Alexander had loaned me. I simply could not resist wearing the earrings even though they were so fancy and looked like tiny chandeliers. I loved them. Danielle didn’t ask, but the question was obvious on her face. Well then why are you here?
Alexander appeared behind my elbow. I could tell because Danielle blushed the same shade of crimson that any woman did when looking at him. I’m sure she recognized him as well. She always did her homework.
“Mr. Durant,” Danielle stammered, “the event staff hadn’t mentioned that you would be attending this year. I’m Danielle Priska with Doctors Without Borders. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She extended her hand and Alexander shook it disinterestedly.
“Danielle and I went to law school together, Alexander,” I added, and Danielle looked at me in disbelief. The fact that I knew one of the world’s most eligible bachelors had never come up in law school. I actively tried not to mention my personal and familial connections in professional contexts. I didn’t want people to think that I was super-rich, too, or that my achievements were unearned because of my proximity to wealth and influence. The truth was I was just the daughter of a lawyer who dealt with the crazy-rich, not a real part of their world.
“Oh really?” Alexander asked me, placing my hand back in the crook of his arm as Danielle stared on, “See, I told you this benefit would be a nice surprise. Have you decided which basket to buy yet?”
Having our conversation observed by Danielle in this way felt beyond bizarre. I decided to just roll with it. I’d probably never see Danielle again anyway. Why not let her think I was dating him? It was fun.
“Yes. I bid for you on Amnesty International.”
“Alright. Why them?”
Alexander was giving me his full attention as if honestly interested in the answer. I tried to sound knowledgeable when I replied. Having his black eyes focused fully on me to the exclusion of all the distractions in this glittering room made me want to blush deeper than Danielle had a moment ago.
“Amnesty International is the best choice because they support a wide range of populations and issues that all revolve around protecting human rights for the world’s neediest populations. They’re big, maybe too big in some ways, but their size and name recognition allows them to undertake research and approach bigger problems that smaller NGO’s can’t afford.”
“You think my money will be well spent?”
“I do. They have an exemplary reputation, and since that doesn’t mean anything anymore, rigorous controls and a published, annual, independent audit.”
“What makes them better than the other organizations?” Alexander asked me, flashing a glance at Danielle. I was gratifie
d that he seemed genuinely interested in my perspective on the matter. His questions were good, too. They were the questions that any donor should ask themselves. All too often, big donors just wanted to know what causes their rivals championed and how much they needed to spend to make them look bad. “What makes Amnesty International a better choice than, say, Doctors Without Borders?” Alexander continued.
“It isn’t necessarily a question of better or worse in this situation,” I explained, feeling Danielle’s attention weighing heavily on this answer. “The money being spent by these organizations will all go to worthy causes. Except PETA. Those people can go suck a dick. The reason I think you should pick Amnesty International is that they focus on the very most desperate people in the very most desperate and unstable situations. Doctors Without Borders is obviously worthy of a donation as well, but I figure that if you’re only going to donate to one cause, you should aim to prevent the sorts of conflicts and abuses that cause organizations like DWB to mobilize in the first place. That way the dollars that do end up going to DWB will go farther.”
I can only imagine how strange this must be from Danielle’s perspective. She must have been unbelievably curious about what’s going on between Alexander and me. I felt the same way. Against my better judgment, I was actually enjoying spending the evening with him.
Alexander nodded, thinking over my answers for a second.
“Ok. Sounds good to me. How much will it set me back?”
“Let’s go take a look,” I said, and then bid goodbye to Danielle, who couldn’t have looked more nonplussed if I’d suddenly sprouted wings and flown off. I lead Alexander back to the Amnesty International basket. It was up to six hundred thousand dollars when we looked. Alexander penciled in six hundred and seventy-five thousand.
“So, what’s wrong with PETA?” Alexander asked afterward, “I thought they protected our furry friends.”
Bleeding Heart Page 7
