Page 96 of A Pack for the Wedding
"You want thirty days so you can keep shopping our offer around," he cuts in, talking right over me. "You're hoping to leverage our number against a competing bid. Bump your valuation. We heard you were talking to Beaumont Patisserie."
"I sell ferns, Trent. I'm not orchestrating anything. I just—"
"You run a very…" He pauses. "…quaint operation."
Quaint.
"The firm is offering you a highly generous sum," he continues, straightening his cufflink like this conversation is already over. "We don't entertain stall tactics from the likes of you."
What the fuck does he mean by that? Small business owners?Omegas..?
Here's the thing.
I was going to be calm. I was going to be reasonable. I was going to be the stressed-but-sensible small business owner who knows when she's outmatched, because that's what I've always done.
But standing here, watching Trent treat the fruits of my hard work like a rounding error he wants to wipe off his spreadsheet?
Something inside my rib cage simply snaps.
The intimidation drains out of me. All of it. Leaving behind something cold and quiet and incredibly sharp.
My shoulders drop. My lungs fill all the way up for the first time since I walked into this building.
"You're right," I say.
Trent smiles. It's a smug, predatory thing. A flash of canines that's more alpha reflex than genuine expression. "I'm glad you're seeing reason. Now, let's—"
"Pull the offer."
The smile freezes.
"Excuse me?"
"The firm is going to pull the offer in less than forty-eight hours." My voice comes out perfectly level. Steady. "Do it now. Save us both the wait."
Trent blinks. He physically recoils half a step, his carefully maintained alpha composure slipping just enough for me to see the confusion underneath it. I watch his nostrils flare. he's probably trying to scent-read me for fear or doubt, but all he's going to find is a wall of pharmaceutical-grade suppressant.
Good luck with that, buddy.
"You're bluffing," he says.
"I'm really not."
I turn on my heel, walk to the door and wrap my hand around the heavy glass handle.
"You are making amassivemistake!" Trent's voice echoes off the mahogany table, pitching a full octave higher than it was thirty seconds ago. "We are not coming back with a better number!"
"You're the ones who actually came to me in the first place. I never asked for anything," I say.
I pull the door open. Step through it. Let it swing shut behind me with a soft, satisfying click.
I give Jessica a small nod on my way out. "Thanks for squeezing me in."
33
Beth
The adrenaline lasts exactly forty-seven miles.
