𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖
Rupert Campbell Black x Oc (Francesca Wellington)
Summary: Francesca Wellington was everything Rupert Campbell Black was and more. A successful show jumper with a title and an estate, she had it all. She was a constant reminder of the man he once was. He couldn't help but hate her for it and yet, he loved her for it just the same.
Part Eight: A watch pot never boils. Unless Rupert Campbell Black watches it, then it boils over. (Aka the fateful dinner scene)
The next few weeks flew by in a haze. Francesca Wellington spent her time training for the European Championships, the competition occurring on Spanish soil growing nearer with every passing day. Each morning she awoke before the sun rose, trained viciously for hours in the hot Colchester heat before collapsing on the O'hara's couch every night. Snoring the night away under one of Maud's cashmere blankets. Francesca and Taggie spent their nights learning about each other. Their childhoods, their parents, their wishes for the future. Declan O'hara's rise to Colchester stardom, with one successful interview after another, acted as a beautiful backdrop for their blooming friendship. The Wellington dog pack and Gertrude were more than happy to spend more time together.
Francesca could admit it. She had found a genuine friend in Taggie. Tag had become her new favourite person in Colchester, besides Fred and Marty of course. And the animals, obviously. She had begun to cherish Taggie's company.
And with blooming friendships came obligations,
such as turning up to Fred and Valerie Jone's home five hours early to help baste pheasants.
Francesca knocked on the front door of "Green Lawns," her fiery red Porsche sitting pretty on the estate lawn. It would for sure leave tyre marks, she doubted Fred would care. She lit a cigarette, smoke wafting into the air as she shifted on her feet. She was tired, having spent the entire morning perfecting her fly changes in dressage. Marty's teaching had become even more relentless as the European championships drew closer, Frank's legs left feeling like jelly every night.
She had come straight from the stable to the Jone's estate, Taggie had seemed frantic on the phone.
The door swung open, Francesca was met with the sight of a frazzled Freddie Jones.
"Frank," He sighed out in relief, "thank goodness." His large hands pulled her inside, Frank's stiff shoulders aching in protest.
She surveyed her surroundings, the familiar garish wallpaper greeting her along with the smell of burning butter. She was a frequent visitor to the Jones home, Fred and her spending quality time held up in the study talking nonsense. Not once had it smelled as good as it did today. "Taggie must be cooking up a storm," she said proudly, "smells heavenly."
Freddie only hummed nervously in reply, Frank turned to face him.
He looked rather pale, his forehead peppered with sweat, "What exactly is wrong with you?" Frank asked bluntly, not one to ever beat around the bush.
"I interfered with the seating plan." Fred blurted out.
Silence befall the pair as Francesca digested his words. The man clearly had a death wish. Valerie Jones had been planning this dinner party for months, pouring over the seating plan like a war general planning an elaborate ambush. Frank doubted she would have cracked an invite if it weren't for her relationship with Freddie. It was apparently an "exclusive" guest list, with only the creme dele creme of Colchester's most spoilt. It physically pained Frank to think about spending her night sitting opposite to Rupert Campbell Black and Tony Baddingham. She'd do it for Freddie though. Friendships were about compromise.
"Do you wish for Valerie to kill you and bury you amongst her magnolias?" Frank asked seriously.
Her old friend sighed, his eyebrows pinching together. " I know I know," He sighed out. Freddie suddenly looked much older than he was. "I just thought one additional person wouldn't hurt anyone."
Frank couldn't help but scoff. "Oh you poor summer child," she said with pity. Clearly he had never attended a Christmas luncheon at Kensington Palace. Frank had figured an extra guest wouldn't ruffle too many feathers. Prince Charles still refused to speak to her. Though it wasn't too much of a loss, she preferred Princess Anne anyways. They both shared a love for horses.
The heiress tapped her friend on the shoulder in sympathy, walking past him into the kitchen. Her riding boots pattered across the kitchen tiles, coming to stop in front of the centre island where Taggie stood stuffing rosemary up a poor pheasant's ass.
"Hello darling," Frank greeted cheerfully, her cigarette hanging out the corner of her lip. "Smells marvellous! Anything I can help with?"
"Ah Francesca!" Taggie greeted relived, dropping the pheasant into a cast iron pot. The redhead made her way around the centre island. "I'm so glad you're here. Valerie wants me to write the menus out in French! French! And she wants me to not only cook the meal but serve it too!" Frank had never seen Taggie so frazzled, her red hair fluffy like an angry red cloud above her head. "This was a mistake I cannot do this!" Tag exclaimed, the O'hara woman's pale face had begun to turn a blotchy red, reminding Frank of oil paint splattered across a blank canvas.
"Woah clam down." Taggie sort of resembled a frightened horse when nervous, Frank thought distantly. It was as if her mare Quickstep had shifted into the body of a twenty year old caterer. "It's alright Tag. I can help with the menus and we'll see what we can do about serving the food. It smells amazing, you've got absolutely nothing to worry about. You're made for this!" Frank reassured, her pale hands finding their place upon Taggie's freckled shoulders.
Taggie nodded slowly as if coming to terms with the fact that all was not lost. Sometimes Frank wondered why Tag thought herself so unworthy. Taggie was a talented chef with a keen eye for food. Francesca hoped one day her friend would begin to recognise just how amazing she was.
"She wants me to wear that." Taggie whispered, as if sharing a great state secret. Francesca watched as her friend's big blue eyes landed upon what looked like a black and white dishtowel. Frank's eyebrows rose in confusion, walking across the kitchen to the so called "uniform" Tag was beseeched to wear.
"This?" Frank asked incredulously, holding up a skimpy maids costume, "this looks like the outfit they wanted me to wear in playboy." She obviously had said no and Marty had told Hugh Hefner to go stick it up his ass. He was a good man her Marty.
"I know!" Tag said, momentarily ignoring the pheasant as she met Frank on the outskirts of the kitchen.
"You can't bloody wear this and cook."
"And serve it too," Taggie shook her head, "I don't want Tony Baddingham seeing me in that. He's my dad's boss for goodness sake."
Freddie returned to the kitchen, changed into what looked like a brightly coloured dinner jacket. He glanced momentarily at Francesca and Taggie before sitting heavily on one of the kitchen stools. "Frank," he sighed like the long suffering man he was, "I still have no bloody idea what to do about this wretched seating plan." He met her eyes across the kitchen, taking in her riding boots and the sheen of sweat across her neck. "and if Valerie sees you wearing that to dinner tonight she'll have both our necks."
Francesca removed her eyes from Taggie's so called uniform for a moment, taking in her own appearance. She had only just entered her home when Tag had called panicking about the pheasants. She hadn't thought, grabbing her car keys and driving off without a moments hesitation. Francesca hadn't brought a change of clothes, and there was absolutely no way she was driving all the way across Colchester to change just to return half an hour later.
Her eyes caught sight of the French maid costume once more, a sly smirk brimming across her face.
"You know Fred," she began, feeling both rather devious and philanthropic, "I think I know just the remedy to both you and Tag's problems."
In hindsight, agreeing to serve food to Rupert Campbell Black dressed like something one might see on a magazine in a teenage boy's room wasn't exactly the most brilliant idea. In her defence, she was mostly focused on the fact that if she served dinner she wouldn't actually have to join it.
"Fuck." She muttered quietly to herself, attempting to pull the short black dress down her thighs to no avail. Taggie was tall, taller than most women but Francesca stood proud at nearly six feet tall. The dress was clearly cut for a much shorter woman with much shorter legs and less muscle. It cinched uncomfortably across Frank's thighs, her silently regretting the many hours she had spent in the saddle earning those thigh muscles.
"You know when I said I wanted you to come to dinner I meant as my guest." Fred said quietly from the doorway looking rather guilty. He had been delighted with the news that his seating plan fumble had been remedied by his closest friend. He was less delighted with the news that said friend would be remedying his blunder by working the party instead of joining it.
Frank met his eyes with a smile. Only yesterday they had been laughing on Fred's living room couch, discussing which annoying guest at this party would mention something posh and snooty first. Francesca Wellington and Freddie Jones did not belong at parties like this. Freddie made his money, he wasn't born with it. He worked his way up from the ground but all upper English society saw was his thick accent and his lack of using the correct cutlery. He wasn't like Valerie, he didn't care if they liked him. He never wished to fit in. He had already earned his keep. It was why he liked Francesca so much. She never belonged with the toffs either. She may have been born rich, posh, privileged, but the upper English society had turned their back on her just like they did him. She never looked at him as anything else except for a funny man who made her laugh. She wasn't like those spoilt brats who burned through their family money with smiles on their snooty faces. Francesca had spent her entire life looking right into the eye of every privileged lord and lady, and telling them to stick it.
Freddie hated the fact that tonight at he and his wife's dinner, hosted at his Colchester manor, where he planned to show every privileged member of Colchester society just how brilliant all his hard work had payed off his best friend would be serving the food in a tight dress.
It wasn't fair, Francesca deserved to be at his side. She was his right-hand woman. She was sometimes too kind, his Frank. He had noticed just how taken she was with the O'hara girl. Francesca had been drawn to the fiery haired Agatha O'hara like a moth to a flame. The heiress longed for companionship. He guessed she was lonely, living in that big house with no family. Obviously, not including the dogs, Freddie wasn't that dense. He just sometimes worried that people would take advantage of his dear Francesca and her kindness. He didn't know why, her family had already tried and it hadn't ended well for them. He knew she could handle herself, he just didn't believe she had to do it alone. He silently hoped that Frank's new blooming friendship with Tag wouldn't end with his friends' heart broken and her kindness exploited.
"Ah Freddie," Frank said sweetly, finally giving up on lengthening her skirt. "Are you going to miss using me as an excuse to not speak to Paul Stratton?"
Freddie entered the small guest room, noticing a few coats already piled high on the bed. He spotted Frank's riding gear thrown in a pile in the corner of the room. His eyes taking in the outfit Valerie wanted her to wear. Frank had paired the tiny dress with her riding boots. It made for a very interesting combination. "You know you don't have to wear that," he said, gesturing slightly to the outfit's puffy sleeves, "you're already helping enough."
"Sometimes you're very naive my dear friend," Frank chuckled, "Valerie has a very clear mental image of what this night looks like, French maid outfit included. I don't want Tag to get in trouble if I don't wear it, she's already nervous that Valerie is upset about the fact that I'm serving the food."
Ah doing it for Taggie, Freddie thought. Again, too nice.
"Alright, I won't argue." He conceded, "I know you're too stubborn to listen anyways. Just know that I appreciate you helping and that I'll miss you when you're not sitting next to me."
Frank grinned, walking towards him and clapping her dear friend on the back. "Don't worry Fred I'll still be in the room serving food. " She walked past him into the doorway, "I can always spill some cranberry sauce in your lap so you feel like I'm near."
There had not been one lunch since the day they met that Francesca Welling had not spilled something across the table. Getting her to serve food at a dinner party was honestly the most stupid idea he had ever agreed to. He still wasn't sure if it was on purpose or not. She had more than enough coordination to win a gold medal at the olympics but couldn't drink a cappuccino without spillage? It was shifty.
"You better not. This dinner jacket is new." He said, a grin betraying his serious tone.
"Oh I absolutely will, that jacket is hideous."
He couldn't help but agree.
Francesca inched her way across the kitchen floor, lightly caressing Taggie's shoulder in reassurance. She had answered the doorbell multiple times already, each guest glancing at her and her outfit in a state of mild horror and fascination. She thought Paul Stratton was about to burst into flames. His leering eyes catching the length of her legs as she went to put his coat upstairs. She wondered if she could throw some of Taggie's cheese sauce down his shirt without Valerie noticing.
The doorbell rang once more, the sound piercing through her head like a vice.
The professional athlete marched towards the door, her riding boots stamping across the flooring. She had no other shoes. Valerie had tried to convince Frank to wear a pair of heels. The idea was promptly shut down by a minor threat from the heiress hidden behind a wide brimmed smile.
The door swung open to reveal the latest and supposedly last arrival.
He stood proud in a check coat, a dinner shirt slightly unbuttoned to reveal tan skin peppered with chest hair. He glanced at her quickly before looking inside the house. Rearing his head back towards her in an obvious double take as if he was actually seeing her for the first time. An evil grin broke out across his face. One might say he looked devilishly handsome stretched across the doorway.
"Wow Wellington," he said with obvious glee, "the olympics not paying you enough? Had to start waitressing at your neighbours' dinner parties."
She felt a deep flush stretch across her face. Anger brimming at the seams. She had promised both Valerie and Fred she wouldn't cause a scene when they had announced that he was invited. She was deeply regretting that choice in this moment, desperate to wipe that smirk off his face.
She wouldn't let him get to her. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "I'm not sure Rupert," she said, silently cheering at how quickly his face fell as she said his name, "How much does a gold medal go for on the market these days?" She paused dramatically. "Of course you wouldn't know. You never won one." He shifted in position, his expression stormy. She couldn't stop while she was so ahead. "You only ever achieved bronze, correct? Thought you'd at least get silver on your third try. Too bad."
He looked positively livid, storming past her into the living room. His coat thrown at her with aggression. She did rather like seeing him so annoyed, felt almost as good as riding.
She wondered back into the kitchen as the guests mingled, watching Taggie cook with fascination.
A huge cloud of noise pierced her ears. A rock song blasting across the Manor House." Well this is going swimmingly," Frank began, giggling slightly as she caught the site of Freddie running across the hall to his beloved sound system. The noise seized. Francesca beginning to laugh as she caught the tail end of Monica Baddingham exclaiming that Freddie's equipment is staggering.
The doorbell rang once more. It must be the illegal guest Freddie had invited. The stone in the perfect seating arrangement's shoe.
Francesca walked towards the door, opening it in interest. Whoever Fred was willing to invite personally to Valerie's beloved party must be rather exciting. The entrance hall was filled with moonlight as a woman stepped through the door. She was dressed in a beautiful suit, her hair quaffed towards the sky in a sharp style. The woman oozed elegance.
If Frank was anyone else she might've felt intimidated. The heiress only found the woman in front of her incredibly attractive.
"Wow." Cameron Cook said smugly, taking in Francesca and her garish outfit. "Cute."
Cameron expected the girl in front of her to cower, or at least step out of her way. It was what most people did in her presence. Instead the tall young thing only leaned forward confidently, her bright eyes scanning Cameron's suit. Corinium's finest show manger suddenly felt like she was the one who should cower.
"I know." said the apparent waitress, "I have amazing legs. Can I take your coat?"
That voice, the confidence, the suave. Cameron Cook was suddenly aware that the woman in front of her was not some young girl from the village hired to help Valerie with the plates but actually Lady Francesca Wellington. Horse rider, heiress, model, and cultural icon. Dressed like a French maid in a Colchester Manor House taking coats from dinner guests. Cameron silently wondered if she was in some strange drug induced dream.
"Francesca Wellington?" Cameron asked breathless.
"That's me." The heiress smirked, her hand outstretched in wait. "Now coat? I have appetisers to serve."
That did nothing to explain why the heiress was there in the first place. Cameron handed over her coat whilst still very much in a state of shock. The older woman had met many stars in her time in the entertainment industry. Elton John. Queen. She even shook Princess Diana's hand at a woman's luncheon without breaking a sweat. But Francesca Wellington was a media legend. Incredibly difficult to get on camera and incredibly popular. Cameron was doing everything she could to get her on Declan's show to no avail, and here she was, taking coats.
The heiress winked as she walked away and up the stairs.
Francesca was silently cursing her riding boots as she walked up the stairs, her quads sweating in their leather embrace. Without the insulation of her Jodhpurs to act as a barrier between her skin and boots they were positively torturous. This night had to end soon, she was ready for a cup of tea and bed with the dogs snuggled against her side.
In her haze of sore feet and sheer obscurity at the situation her and her aching heart had found herself in, she had failed to hear Rupert Campbell Black and Sarah Stratton having sex in the guest room.
Francesca had thrown the door open aggressively, thrusting the coat across the room and onto the bed without a moment's glance at who was occupying it. She was too busy to care to check if it had landed on the bed. The coat in fact landed on Rupert Campbell Black's face, a button nicking his eyebrow. He hissed in pain as Sarah gasped in shock. Both of them turning to see who had caught them in her sinful act. Only Rupert managed to get a glance of curly black hair and a maid's uniform.
The object of all his spite. She had thrown a coat at his face and was probably running down the stairs to tell Paul Stratton the good news with a smile upon her face. She really was a thorn in his side. Sarah began to kiss him once more, clearly deciding that whoever had seen the coat was no consequence to them. He continued to watch the door with contempt, his mind twisting in thought of how to enact revenge.
When he entered the living room once more he was surprised to see that Paul Stratton was none the wiser, no idea what his wife and Rupert had been doing just a minute ago upstairs in the guest room.
So she hadn't told anyone. Just thrown a coat at his face and fled back to the kitchen.
He still felt revenge was deserved.
His eyebrow stung with every step he took.
Dinner commenced without delay. Appetizers placed upon plates with a smile upon Frank's face. She had gotten quite a few laughs from the guests when she entered, exclaiming proudly that despite her privileged upbringing she was still more than capable of passing around a few onion quiches. Lizzie Vereker had mentioned how good of a friend she was to choose to leave dinner in favour of helping Taggie. Tony Baddingham had complimented her serving skills in a clear attempt to convince her to join the Corinium board once more, like that would work. Valerie had exclaimed that she was serving the plates the wrong way which was promptly followed by Freddie stating he was just happy she hadn't thrown all the food on the floor.
Francesca had chuckled with each plate she served.
He continued to watch her in contempt.
It was ridiculous. She knew just how to annoy him. How to niggle her way into his thoughts and ruin his night. Sarah Stratton had been trying to feel his thigh with her foot all night and Cameron Cook was incredibly attractive. He didn't care. He only cared about her stupid smile and how easily she navigated her new found waitressing position.
Everyone laughed at her jokes, and complimented how beautifully she served each course.
Their eyes had met across the table.
His entire night felt like it was going up in flames as his skin turned flush with anger.
The dessert looked stunning. Each piece of fruit carefully arranged in a colourful halo. The pavlova shining white like a cloud in a summer sky.
"Tag." Frank said proudly, squeezing her friend's arm in excitement."You've outdone yourself."
Taggie blushed, hoping her flush from the hot kitchen masked her embarrassment. It was strange how easy Francesca captivated everyone around her. It was if the heiress had the ability to turn people into clay, moulding them into exactly what she needed. "Thank you Frank." She said shyly.
"I'd say tonight was a success."
"I hope so. I would love to do more catering jobs." Tag said earnestly. She turned towards her new friend. The celebrity still looking stunning in her ridiculous costume. How Francesca could still look put together in French maid costume alluded Taggie. "I just want to say thank you for helping me tonight. There is no way I could have done it without you."
Francesca smiled, squeezing Tag's arm once more in affection. "For you and Freddie? I'd do anything. I'm proud of you Tag."
Taggie grinned, her freckled face beaming with light. "I'm so glad we met."
Frank shuffled slightly, clearly a bit uncomfortable with Tag's earnest reply. It was quite funny, Taggie thought, how easily the confident heiress turned uncomfortable as soon as things got too emotional.
"Well," Frank said, ending the moment, "I think you should serve the dessert."
"What?" Tag asked in shock, "No I couldn't I'm the chef. I should stay in the kitchen. Everyone in there wants to see you not me."
Frank shook her head in reply, carefully placing the Pavlova within Taggie's hands. "You worked too hard tonight to hide in this kitchen. Now go out there and remind all those idiots exactly who they need to hire for every future dinner event in Colchester."
Tag nodded breathlessly. Who was she to argue with the Francesca Wellington.
He had expected to see her. The short dress, the confident grin, serving Pavlova with ease. It was part of his plan. Embarrass her, remind her just exactly who he was. Get her back for her comment in the doorway. Enact revenge for the button shaped bruise on his forehead.
It wasn't logical, revenge hardly ever was.
All he felt was anger, and the need to restore balance. To take her down a peg and remind her just exactly who she was. A young kid with a little bit of luck. He had the experience, two lustrous careers under his belt and the prime minister eating out the palm of his hand. How dare she look down upon him?
He hadn't expected the O'hara girl.
She had walked in shyly, blushing at the praise from the dinner party guests. Her pavlova siting proudly in her arms. She had served it to him with a smile, a flush upon her cheeks as he called her an angel. She was cute. Innocent.
She didn't really deserve what was about to happen, but she was friends with her. And if he couldn't embarrass her, he might as well embarrass someone she cares about.
He pinched the young O'hara girl roughly as she was serving Cameron Cook a helping of Pavlova.
The dessert tray came crashing down with a bang.
Cameron rosę to her feet shouting, pavlova spilled down her front. The O'hara girl began to cry, running out the dining room as Freddie led Cameron away to get a change of clothes.
"Rupert." Sarah Stratton said, her eyes filled with disappointment.
He didn't have it in him to care.
Taggie had come into the kitchen running. Her steps fast like hell was at her heels. Her face was flushed with tears, her hair in disarray.
Pavlova stained the front of her.
"What happened?" Francesca questioned, jumping to her feet from where she sat eating dinner with Freddie's children. Both of the Jone's kids adored the young heiress, sneaking her chocolate milk as she attempted once more to pull down her short costume.
"Rupert he - he-" Taggie began, finding it difficult to put the words together. She was just so embarrassed and angry. Everything had gone so well until the very last moment. Now all everyone would remember was how she threw Pavlova all over Valerie Jone's guests.
"He did what?" Francesca asked calmly, a serious expression breaching her face. It was strange to see someone so usually relaxed looking so grim. It shocked Tag enough to be able to finish her sentence.
"He pinched my bum. I was so shocked I threw the Pavlova all over my dad's show manager Cameron."
Oh, so that was what the screaming was. Francesca had silently hoped it was in celebration of Taggie's brilliant cooking. It was stupid to hope that everything would end up working out in the end. Seating arrangements and maid costumes aside. Francesca felt anger creep up her spine.
The heiress took a calming breath, she touched Taggie's shoulders in comfort. "It wasn't your fault. The dinner was delicious. He ruined it. You were perfect Tag and everyone here tonight knows that."
Taggie nodded, tears still spilling out her eyes. The anger within Frank's chest began to grow at the sight, her lungs feeling hot in anticipation.
She hugged Taggie and promptly stepped away.
"Wait," Tag began as Francesca exited the kitchen. "Where are you going?"
She caught them in the hallway. Lizzie Vereker staring at him like a disappointed parent. He even looked guilty. He didn't deserve to feel guilt. He chose this. No one forced him to embarrass Taggie on the biggest night of her career.
"Honestly Rupert this was bad form." Lizzie said sternly, her voice faint under the rumble within Frank's head.
It felt as if everything else had melted away. The world fading to black at the edges as her eyes landed upon him. The anger within her chest sparked, waiting.
"Excuse me Lizzie, sorry to interrupt." Frank said politely, the other two adults in the room turning to face her at her intrusion.
"Francesca?" Lizzie asked quietly.
He grinned smugly, his tan face turning towards her. "Ah Wellington come to join the drama-"
He was promptly cut off by a fist to the face.
Lizzie gasped in horror, Rupert Campbell Black stumbled back in shock.
"What the fuck-" He began, interrupted by yet another punch.
This one knocked him back even further, he tripped on Valerie Jone's pink shag carpet and fell promptly on his back. He looked up at her in shock, the overhead lights shining behind her like a halo.
She looked almost angelic, he thought, standing over him like this.
Francesca Wellington paused momentarily to take in the sight before her. Rupert Campbell Black knocked square on his ass by a woman half his age. Not so confident now are you, she thought, before promptly moving to hit him again.
Shouting sounded from behind her, she didn't hear it. Her vision had turned red with anger, her hands hot with pain as she carried on. She wasn't stopping.
All she could see was Taggie's teary face as her friend told Frank what happened.
She tried to hit him again, she'd lost count of how many times she had thrown a punch. Rupert had blocked a few, dodged a few more, but there was a very dark bruise forming across his face. It was rather difficult to stop an angry professional athlete whose friend had just gotten assaulted by the man she was hitting.
Fred eventually tore her off of him, dragging her kicking and screaming to the kitchen as all the other guests watched on in mild horror and amusement.
He watched her go. Looking so angry in her short maid dress.
Well, he had gotten what he wanted.
Revenge. A reaction from her.
He just hadn't expected that.
His face hurt as he smiled.
he hadn't expected that at all.
Seems like Francesca Wellington had just as much bark as she did bite. He hadn't expected a privileged heiress raised to be perfect in every way to throw a punch like a sailor. It was strange seeing her react that way, so unrestrained. So different to how their previous interactions had been, cutting words exchanged with tight smiles. It seemed like his entire perception of her was wrong. It was rather conflicting. He thought she was some stuck up genius who had taken his spot on the Olympic team. But this? This angry woman who cared about her friend so much she was willing to pick a fight with a man and win? This person who cared so deeply she was deprived of all rational thought? No. He hadn't expected that. She almost reminded him of himself.
He licked his lips, feeling them sting with every movement. The taste of blood filled his senses.
