Loving Madeline

Chapter 371: To Be Real

Charlotte’s POV

It was a beautiful morning—sunlight poured through the tall glass windows of the hotel’s restaurant, casting golden rays over crisp white linens and gleaming cutlery. The soft hum of quiet conversations and the clinking of dishes created a calm, almost soothing atmosphere.

But nothing about this morning felt calm to me.

Sitting across from Jack made my nerves feel like they were strung too tight, ready to snap at any moment. I couldn’t stop fidgeting. My heart pounded relentlessly in my chest, echoing in my ears like a warning drum I couldn’t silence.

And there he was.

So composed. So calm. Cutting into his breakfast like we hadn’t shared something—like we weren’t two people with a complicated, painful history woven between us. As if my presence was nothing more than background noise in his perfectly ordered world.

How?

How could he sit there so wholly unaffected?

Had he already moved on? Or—worse—had he never been affected at all?

Maybe it was all just a game to him. A well-rehearsed act. A strategy carefully crafted with my brother, all part of whatever plan they were plotting back then. Maybe his charming smiles, stolen glances, soft words, and late-night talks—perhaps none of it had ever been real.

And me? I was just the naive girl who fell for the illusion.

I bit the inside of my cheek and forced myself to take a sip of my coffee, needing something to anchor me before the storm of thoughts completely drowned me. The bitterness of it matched the taste in my mouth perfectly.

Still... I couldn’t look away from him.

Even when I wanted to. Even when I should.

His profile caught the sunlight in the most irritatingly attractive way. His jawline was sharper now, and the stubble on his face only added to that rugged, careless charm he wore so effortlessly. He had filled out more—stronger, more refined. His presence felt heavier now, more commanding, like he had grown into the man I once thought he could become.

And I hated it.

I hated that I noticed and that I cared. I hated that even now, after everything he had done to me, I still found him heartbreakingly, infuriatingly beautiful.

The moment I set my fork down, I pushed my chair back and stood. I didn’t give Jack a second glance. I didn’t trust myself to.

Every nerve in my body buzzed with the tension I’d been trying to swallow since the moment we sat down. Being near him—breathing the same air—was too much. I needed space. Distance. Anything to clear my head.

Without a word, I left the table and exited the restaurant, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floors as I made my way toward the function hall where the seminar was being held.

But I heard them.

Footsteps.

Even before I looked back, I knew it was him.

Of course, it was him.

I stopped in the hallway abruptly, spun on my heel, and faced him. "Would you stop following me?" I snapped louder than I intended, the words laced with the frustration I had kept bottled up all morning.

He didn’t flinch. His expression brightened like I had just told him something flattering. That damn grin of his stretched across his face, smug and amused, as if he lived to provoke me.

"My dearest Charlotte," he said with infuriating ease, "I’m heading to the same place as you. So unless you’d like me to climb out the window and rappel down the side of the hotel to avoid ’following’ you... I’d suggest you stop complaining."

I blinked at him.

Speechless. Irritated.

And stupidly, undeniably aware of how good he looked even when being an absolute pain.

He was enjoying this. The chase. The tension. The fact that he still got under my skin like no one else ever could.

And maybe that’s what scared me the most.

Because part of me—some small, reckless part—wasn’t sure if I wanted him to stop.

I frowned, said nothing, and turned around without a second glance in Jack’s direction. My heels clicked softly against the hotel’s polished floor as I made my way toward the seminar venue, my pulse still annoyingly out of rhythm from our earlier interaction.

I told myself I didn’t care that I wasn’t affected.

But I was.

I found a seat near the front, tucked my bag beneath the chair, and tried to focus on the glossy program brochure in my hands. Unfortunately, any hope of slipping into quiet anonymity disappeared the moment Jack entered the room.

Every woman’s head seemed to turn in unison as if pulled by some invisible string. Soft gasps. Whispered giggles. Coy glances. The energy in the room shifted, thick with attention—and Jack, of course, soaked it all in like it was his birthright.

I reminded myself that he is our guest speaker, the main attraction, the professional draw.

Still, something about the way he moved—calm, confident, completely at ease—irritated me more than it should have. Especially when a tall brunette in a sleek navy dress approached him with all the grace of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.

Her laughter rang out softly as she leaned into his space, a little too close, her fingers brushing his arm as if she had every right to touch him. She was beautiful, poised, and entirely unbothered by the fact that people were watching.

Jack didn’t move away.

He didn’t even flinch.

My stomach twisted, and I looked away, pretending to skim the seminar schedule—but the words blurred on the page.

Why was I feeling like this? Like I had no right to care, but couldn’t stop myself from caring anyway?

And then I heard her ask it—bold, playful, and just loud enough for the room to hear:

"So... dinner tonight?"

I froze.

My breath caught in my throat, and I held it entirely still as I waited for his answer.

Please say no. Please—

Wait. Why do I care?

Jack’s voice was smooth and casual, but the words that came out made my heart jolt.

"I’m sorry," he said with that same infuriating charm, "but I already have plans tonight—with Ms. Divenson."

My head shot up.

What?

I stared at him, stunned. That name—my name—fell from his lips so naturally, like it was apparent. Like it was already set in stone. Like we had an actual plan.

And what shocked me more than his words... was the surge of warmth that rushed through me when I heard them—relief, gratitude, maybe even a hint of smug satisfaction.

But I didn’t want to spend time with him tonight. Did I?

Before I could even process it, Jack turned to me with that familiar half-smile—the one that always looked like he was keeping some secret only I was meant to know.

"Right, Charlotte?" he added, casually looping me into his game.

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I felt every eye in the room swing toward me. The air suddenly felt too thick, the silence too loud, and all I could hear was the pounding of my own heartbeat.

I opened my mouth... and realized I had no idea what I was going to say.

"Of course, they are going on a date tonight; I had a chat with Charlotte, who told me last night," Sophia saved me, and I could feel my face blushing as I nodded my head.

The room fell into a tense, awkward silence after Jack casually announced our supposed date. Eyes flicked between us, filled with curiosity, surprise, and maybe even a bit of suspicion. I could almost hear the unspoken questions bouncing around in their minds.

The only one who seemed genuinely thrilled was Sophia, seated behind me. She let out a small gasp of excitement and nudged my shoulder playfully, whispering something that sounded suspiciously like, "Finally."

I forced a tight-lipped smile.

Meanwhile, the brunette who had asked him out showed no visible signs of disappointment. Not a flicker of annoyance. No jealousy. It was just a smooth, practiced smile that made my stomach twist for an entirely different reason.

She leaned in close to Jack again, lowering her voice enough to be heard only by him—but just loud enough that the rest of us could catch her parting words.

"You know my number," she said with a honeyed tone, "and the hotel I’m staying at. You can come by anytime."

Then, with one last lingering glance and a flick of her hair, she turned and made her way back to her seat, hips swaying with calculated elegance.

I bit my tongue, resisting the childish urge to glare at her retreating back.

Jack, for his part, remained completely unbothered. Not a single flicker of interest crossed his face. Instead, he turned back toward the projector and launched straight into his presentation without missing a beat—as the flirtation had never happened as none of it had.

And I hated how impressive that was.

His voice was calm, composed, and commanding. Every word was measured, and every concept was explained with clarity and confidence. He knew how to hold a room and make people listen. Despite the chaos of my own emotions, I found myself leaning forward, hanging on his every word.

He was good. Too good.

And damn it, I missed him.

More than I wanted to admit. More than I could ignore.

Even if everything he’d just said about our date was part of some elaborate performance, part of the Jack Stone charm offensive, I found myself... looking forward to it.

Even if it was a lie.

Even if I was supposed to hate him.

Some part of me was hopeful, and even though I knew it was stupid and reckless, I still wanted the date to be real.