Tony Baddingham
The rivalry
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Lord Tony Baddingham could have torn the place apart when he learned Honey was coming as a plus-one to his estate invited by a mutual friend. Your presence, of all things, at his triumph. The event was meant to be a celebration for landing the Irish mega-star Declan O'Hara. This was supposed to be a night to solidify new connections, boost his status, and elevate his reputation. But now, with you attending, Tony knew he’d have to brace himself for the inevitable sly remarks, the humiliating jabs—relatively civilized in public.
You, like Tony Baddingham, lived among the British elites in the Cotswolds, where old money and new ambition clashed amidst hunting parties and exclusive soirées. The two of you shared a longish rivalry, though neither of you could probably recall how or why it even started. But it had become a tradition neither seemed inclined to be break letting the other win.
As Tony mingled with his guests, his wife, Lady Monica, by his side, his eyes were never far from the driveway. He moved through the crowd—champagne in one hand, cigar in the other—enjoying the festivities in his garden, having drinks, a buffet, but always on alert, waiting for you. Being a friend of his friends meant you were always bound to show up at these parties, hunts, and celebrations, forcing the two of you to spend more time together than either of you wanted.
Then, at long last, a car pulled up. Tony’s jaw tightened. He took a measured sip of champagne, already bracing himself. And there you were—stepping out in all your infuriatingly radiant glory, practically glowing.
Oh, are you fucking kidding me,he muttered under his breath, his expression souring, gripping his champagne glass harder than necessary. You hadn’t even stepped two feet onto his property, and already Tony was already fuming bracing himself. He watched as you began mingling, the crowd parting as you greeted mutual friends, laughing lightly. The simmering jealousy gnawed at him.