Beatrice Bartoni Novels & Stories

Alexander stiffened at Beatrice’s words. Distrusting his wife, he asked cautiously, “I can’t guess. Just tell me—what is it?” Beatrice lifted her chin, triumphant. “The Butterfly Dress that Buffon Leonardo, the Italian designer, has refused to sell for twenty years—I managed to snap it up for Catherine. Am I not wonderful?” Winnie’s face darkened at once. She clenched her teeth. She had dreamed for years of wearing that dress, but her mother had bought it for Alicia instead. Jealousy surged so hotly she couldn’t hide it.

“Though now I’m curious why I’m being grilled for innocent small talk.” “There was nothing innocent about those questions.” Her voice cuts sharply, her eyes widening now just before the bathroom door swings open. A tall woman steps in, and I recognize her. Beatrice. One of the shareholders of House of Valemont. I school my face into neutrality as she sweeps Vivienne into an embrace. “Hello there, Vivienne. You look beautiful.” Vivienne’s switches to full charm mode, her smile blooming warm. “Thanks, Beatrice. You look lovely too.”

a harsh whisper hissed from the copy alcove twenty feet away. I didn’t look up from my pinky nail, but my lips curled into a smirk. The speaker was Beatrice, a woman in her late forties whose wardrobe consisted entirely of beige pant suits and resentment. Beside her stood high-and-mighty Clara, who had been passed over for the senior executive secretary role three times in the last five years.

“The bastard even refused me entry to my own daughter’s funeral and kept you as far away from me as he could.” I stared down at the plates, wondering how my life might have been different. “I wish you could have gotten to me. Those years were hell.” His gaze locked onto me, his brow furrowed. “I tried. I lost over a dozen men trying, half of them to the man lying in this house.” My eyes widened. “Domenico?” He nodded. “He was younger then, still working his way up. The anger in him…there is good reason they call him la Bestia, mia bella.”

Barrett asked her. “No. She has not eaten anything yet. She didn't even eat lunch”. Beatrice replied to Barrett on behalf of Pearl, who had almost replied to Barrett. “Who…?”. Barrett asked. It was now that he and Garrett noticed the unfamiliar face, Beatrice. Beatrice paused when she saw how Barrett and Garrett were staring at her with suspicious eyes. “Oh”. She reacted after she understood why they were staring at her. She introduced herself, “I am Doctor Beatrice. I'm the owner of Beatrice's hospital, which is located in China. Your mother was treated in my hospital before she became well again”.

Beatrice Vane was a name whispered in the dark corners of Wall Street—the elder sister Julian had never mentioned, the one who had been scrubbed from the family records after a scandal that nearly collapsed the New York Stock Exchange in the late nineties. While Silas Thorne had been a blunt instrument of corporate power, Beatrice was a scalpel. She didn't destroy companies; she hollowed them out from the inside until they collapsed under their own weight.

I know those heels. Beatrice Sinclair walks in the way she always walks into this house, like the deed is in her name and I am a guest who has overstayed. Grey coat, pearl earrings, bag in the crook of her arm, lipstick perfect because Beatrice is always perfect. She looks at me first. Then past me at the table. Her eyes move slowly across everything, the candles, the two plates, the full untouched wine bottle, the whole careful humiliating effort of this evening, and something settles in her expression that has never once in five years been sympathy.

he continued, enjoying how her irritation flickered into deep contemplation. Beatrice frowned, running through the endless list of possibilities in her head. It had to be a rival tycoon, an established name, perhaps an elusive but powerful designer. She ran through every person she had ever crossed paths with in the industry. Was it an old acquaintance? A foreign powerhouse? Certainly not someone insignificant. Certainly not... Her gaze flickered toward the main seating area, where Sarah had just taken her seat beside Liam Carrington, sipping champagne with an unreadable expression. She scoffed.

“No. I’m just playing my part.” “Oh,” said Joshua, laughing at his mother’s bubbling excitement. Vicky looked around her for familiar faces. Then suddenly she sees someone she knew from high school. “Oh, hi Beatrice,” said Vicky. She was running to see her old classmate. Beatrice Miller is well known for her famous clothes and fashion designs. She was one of the legendary fashion designers. She is also in charge of many runaway projects and jewelry design. Some of her works are displayed in museums for people all over the world to see and admire.

And her minions, always lurking behind her like shadows, trailing after her like perfume and lies. I stiffened immediately, my spoon pausing mid-air. Liam’s eyes flicked up toward the door, and his entire posture changed—relaxed, but alert. “Well, well,” Beatrice’s voice sang out as she approached our table. “If it isn’t Zara. Eating ice cream like a real girl. Didn’t know sarcasm had calories.” I didn’t look up. Didn’t flinch. I’d heard worse from her. I focused on my dessert. Beatrice didn’t like being ignored.