Eric stepped out of the boardroom without a backward glance.
The heavy door shut behind him with the same finality it had opened. His footsteps echoed against the marbled corridor — sharp, steady, unhurried.
He didn't go to the exit.
Instead, he pressed the elevator button and waited. The elevator arrived. He stepped in alone.
The top floor. His grandfather's office.
The elevator doors slid open again with a soft chime, spilling golden light into the corridor.
Which was quieter, more intimate. Fewer staff. More history.
He found her exactly where he'd expected — by the tall window that overlooked the estate's northern gardens. He didn't knock—he never did.
He hadn't seen her in person since that day — the day she'd smugly told him about a "delightful young woman" waiting for coffee. They'd spoken since, sure — the occasional text, a call — but this was the first time they sat face-to-face since she'd set him up.
Inside the expansive office, the scent of bergamot tea mingled with something sweeter.
"Hazelnut praline," Madeline said before he could speak. "Still warm when it arrived. You remembered I hate cold pastries."
Eric's eyes dropped to the fine china plate in front of her. Half of a caramel-glazed tart remained.
"I figured you could use something sweet before the storm," he said, closing the door behind him.
She glanced up, amusement curling at the corners of her mouth. "A storm?"
Then she set the fork down. "Darling, the entire east wing is already vibrating."
He let out a breath, stepping closer. "You heard?"
"Word travels quickly when a Harrison rattles the cage."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Faster when it's you holding the stick."
Eric sat across from her. "He won't like it."
"Walter hasn't liked anything since 1982. But you?"
She reached for her teacup.
"You were magnificent."
Madeline poured herself another cup from the rose-gold teapot and gestured delicately toward the second cup beside her. "Tea? It's Earl Grey. Your grandfather's blend."
Eric leaned back in the chair, arms crossed. "You know I don't drink perfume."
She raised a brow, lifting the fine china cup as if inspecting it anew. "And yet you pipe rosewater ganache into pastries with a straight face."
He gave a slow shrug. "That's art. This"—he nodded toward the teacup—"is leaf soup."
Madeline sipped, unimpressed. "Honestly, a pastry chef who drinks black coffee. It's unnatural. Like a violinist who hates music."
Eric gave her a sideways look. "It balances the sugar."
Her brow arched faintly. "Still stubborn."
He smirked, leaning back. "I prefer honest bitterness over floral lies."
She let out a quiet laugh. "Your palate is as dramatic as your exit today."
The smile lingered just a second longer before falling away.
Eric's voice dropped. "Did you mind....what happened in the boardroom?
Madeline set the cup down, the china kissing the saucer with a soft clink. Her gaze didn't waver.
"I minded the timing," she said coolly. Then, a pause. "But not the substance."
"I didn't plan it."
She stirred her tea with quiet precision, the fine china clinking softly.
"I still remember when your father brought all four of you into that old study," she murmured. "Julian too proud to sit, Nicholas already asking questions about dividends, and Rowan—of course—wanted to redesign the company logo."
Eric gave a faint, amused scoff. "He still does."
She smiled. Her smile was soft. Too soft. The kind that wrapped steel in silk. "And you… you just stood by the window. Silent. Watching everything."
"Wondering how I ended up being Charles Harrison's third son," Eric replied dryly.
Madeline looked up with a glint in her eye. "You were always different. Even your uncles said it—'That one's trouble, but not in the usual Harrison way.'"
He chuckled under his breath. "Uncle James still calls me 'the pastry traitor.'"
"Well, you did choose butter over boardrooms."
"You think they will fight back?" he asked after a pause.
"Of course," she said, as if discussing tomorrow's weather. ""Nicholas won't sit still. He never does — too fond of making noise, even when silence would serve him better. Julian will stay quiet, as always — until Charles or Elena tells him otherwise. Rowan will try to make peace, poor thing. And your uncles... well, they'll pretend it's none of their business until it becomes theirs."
Eric looked away, jaw tense. "Nicholas came after Rowan. Publicly. I couldn't let it slide."
"And you shouldn't have made it personal." She took a sip of tea, then smiled faintly. "But I suppose that's the Harrison way. And so you reminded them who you are. Not just a chef with charming pastries. You're still a Harrison."
She studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp behind soft features. "Your mother would've burned the whole room down. You, however — you waited for the match to land exactly where it would sting."
A pause stretched between them.
Her fingers tapped the saucer once, rhythmically — calculating.
"You did well," she said finally. "But be careful. Truth comes with enemies. Especially when it's spoken out loud."
Eric looked at her — this woman who'd watched empires rise inside drawing rooms and fall over dinner tables.
"I'm not afraid of them."
Madeline smiled — sad. "I know. That's what worries me."
Another silence. Then she added, almost offhandedly, "Your grandfather's already furious."
Eric smirked. "Then I did something right."
She laughed — soft and proud.
Eric looked at her — really looked. The quiet command, the mind behind the matriarch. "Are you with me?"
Madeline met his eyes. "Always."
Then softer, with a trace of pride only a grandmother can carry:
"And this time, darling, they'll remember why you should never have been underestimated."
"Thank you," he said finally, voice low.
Then he leaned forward. "You still haven't told me why you're here."
Madeline tilted her head, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "Because I knew you'd come here after the meeting."
He raised a brow. "To congratulate me?"
"No," she said, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "To talk. About Sarah."
"I opened the lemon tart first," she went on, gently. "The one you always sent on your sister's birthday. That's how I knew you were thinking about home again."
Eric looked away, but she pressed on, softly.
"I've watched you push everyone out, Eric. One by one. But not her. Not Sarah."
He said nothing.
"How is Sarah?"
He let out a quiet breath, leaning back. "You really want to know?"
"I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
He gave a short laugh, not entirely amused. "She's a mess. I'm a mess. And all of it—" he pointed a finger, not accusing but familiar "—started with you, Grandmother."
Madeline blinked innocently. "Me?"
"Oh, don't act like you don't remember."
Eric leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You told me you'd been talking to someone online for two months. You said she was smart and refreshing, and just might be the cure to my 'emotional frostbite.'"
"You were quite emotionally constipated."
He ignored her and pressed on. "Then you tell me you've arranged a coffee date. You practically blackmailed me into going. Said you'd call my mother and arrange a brunch with every debutante in the state if I didn't."
And.
"You even guilt-tripped me about your health that week."
He said it like someone reporting a crime they were too polite to name.
"I was recovering," she said, innocently. "And I needed cheering up."
"You told me if I didn't go, you'd never forgive me."
Madeline smiled into her tea.
"And you went, didn't you?" she replied, sipping again. "Met Chloe. Or at least, the one I thought was Chloe."
That made him pause.
"I almost didn't go," he said. "You pushed."
Madeline smiled over the rim of her cup. "I always know when to push you. You only hate it when I'm right."
A beat passed before he said, quieter, "Yeah… about that."
"You do know, you basically blackmailed her too, right?"
Madeline raised an elegant eyebrow. "Blackmail is such a vulgar word, darling. I simply encouraged her to keep her word. Firmly."
Eric gave a low chuckle. "You told her you knew her apartment address. That if she didn't meet you for coffee, you might just pay a visit with a full tea set and five Harrison women in tow."
He exaggerated.
Madeline sipped her tea with perfect calm. "And she was very punctual after that, wasn't she?"
Eric shook his head, lips twitching. "You terrified her. She thought you'd- I mean I'd show up at her place."
She didn't say anything.
He continued. "You know... I knew something was off. That day at the café."
A pause.
"She was nervous. Not the usual first-date kind. More like she was walking a tightrope and praying I wouldn't notice." He glanced at the window, lost in the memory. "The way she talked—kept tripping over her words. And when I mentioned something from your chats, she looked at me like I'd just spoken another language."
Madeline set her teacup down with a soft clink and looked up at him with that familiar, all-knowing gleam in her eye.
"I still think you should thank me for that date," she said, lightly. "If I hadn't nudged you, you'd still be brooding in that bakery like a tragic prince."
Eric gave a short breath of a laugh, leaning back. "You think that was nudging?"
She rested her teacup on its saucer and looked up at Eric.
"You should send her something. A note. Flowers. Something to break the silence."
The memory rose unbidden, Madeline hadn't seen the boxes or flowers he sent. She hadn't known. And he wasn't sure he wanted her to.
He forced a small smile. "She already made it clear she didn't want any kind of relationship."
Madeline didn't flinch. "People change their minds."
"I'll… try," he said at last, his voice low but steady. "Something simple."
Then stood. "I should head to the bakery. Morning prep's running behind."
Madeline leaned back in her chair, a half-eaten pastry in hand, watching him leave with a quiet fondness in her eyes.
"Send her something sweet, Eric," she called softly. "Not just the pastries."
He didn't answer — but the flicker of a smile tugged at his mouth before the door closed behind him.