I’m so embarrassed. So, so embarrassed I may give new definition to the word. I go back home and sit there, on my bed, smelling his soap and cologne on my clothes, completely sober and unable to sleep. If Saint had any doubts, any at all, that I still wanted him, I’m sure he’s pretty sure of how hopelessly I do.
Oh god.
And it turns out, I’m not the only one worked up about Saturday; social media seems just as frenzied about it.
My presence at the wine tasting seems to have sparked another kind of wildfire in Saint’s floozie circle on Monday.
IS IT TRUE? ARE THE RUMORS OF YOU GETTING BACK WITH YOUR GIRLFRIEND TRUE?
And back to Twitter:
@malcolmsaint spotted with HER
@malcolmsaint is it true? Are you getting back with her????? They say you were together Saturday
@tahoeroth is it true @malcolmsaint is seeing his ex-girlfriend? He’s staring at her from the podium and WTF with the look he’s giving her!!
I click on the link and stare at a picture of me standing inside McCormick Place as he was getting to my question. I didn’t even see anyone take this picture of us. In fact, at that moment I hadn’t noticed that he was giving me a very toe-curling look without regard for anyone watching.
Sighing, I tuck my phone away and search through my “ideas” file.
I’m mulling over topics when Helen tings me at my desk.
I lock my computer—something I never did before. I used to think my riches were in my brain and whatever was in my files was not as valuable as what I, myself, contained. But after Victoria copied my research file, I realized everything you value has to be locked well. Oh, life, how jaded you make us, I think as I lock it—and then I head over to Helen.
When she sees me, she gives me a big grin and gestures to one of her chairs. “Sit down.”
I shake my head and start to tell her, “No, I’m good. Helen, I’m finally having a breakthrough—”
“We’re being bought out,” she cuts me off.
“I . . . excuse me?”
So . . . there’s truth to the rumor?
Helen clucks. “See, Rachel, you should’ve taken the chair.”
We stare at each other across her desk. Helen looks about as incredulous as I, but far happier about it.
“We’ve got an offer and it’s apparently your article that caught our investor’s eye,” she continues. The look she’s sending my way practically pets me with appreciation.
Helen’s marvel and delight are apparent, but I’m getting more baffled by the second. “Well, who’s buying us? Edge hasn’t been attractive for years.”
“No, it hasn’t. But it looks like it is now,” she says. “The offer’s from a big one. It’s actually someone you might know. Linton Corporation.” She waits as if I know anything about it and expects me to guess.
When I remain silent, she adds, “Noel Saint’s new media corporation.”
My stomach hits the floor.
I shake my head and brace my forehead on my hand for a minute as I count to . . . well, actually, to four.
“Noel Saint?”
“The very one.” She smiles. “And you don’t need to be worried. He might be making changes, but the current owners assure me you’ll be staying. Noel Saint is very intrigued by the woman who captured such prolonged interest from his son.”
I want to throw up. I feel so physically sick that I can’t remain standing for much longer, much less keep talking about this.
Staring mutely for another moment, I finally say, “If you don’t mind I’m going to try to get a column started . . .”
I head out the door and, back at my computer, the memory of an overheard conversation just this weekend teases me.
Espionage . . . he’ll never leave you alone . . .
Noel Saint is buying Edge.
Because of my article.
Why?
What does he want with Edge?
With me?
I sit staring at my computer. When Saint pursued me before, he bought my mural . . . he sent me flowers . . . he helped End the Violence take new, technological safety measures . . . but I never imagined that offering me a job at M4 could have a similar underlying reason.
Is Saint protecting me from his father?
I war with myself for the next hour. I lose, and shoot him a text: Can you talk?
Too impatient when he doesn’t answer by lunchtime, I grab my bag, toss my afternoon apple inside, and call Catherine on my way to the elevator.
When she answers, I ask in a rush, “Is he in? Can you get me five minutes with him?”
“I’m sorry but he’s out of the office today.”
I exhale and stop at the elevator. “Thanks.” Disappointed, I go back to my seat and think of Sin as I eat my apple.
He didn’t sound worried during the wine tasting when he was questioned about his father. He seemed more concerned over what I thought of the wine than what the businessman whispered.
Even so, his father is dangerous.
As dangerous as Saint himself.
And then a bolt hits me, and I remember hearing him tell someone: “. . . have to be dead to let her fall into his clutches . . .”
It all starts to click with lightning-fast speed in my head.
Oh.
My.
Oh my oh my oh my.
Feeling a spike of adrenaline as I remember the grade-A ASSHOLE Saint’s father is, I surf the internet for information on the man.
I find a few articles about lawsuits from employees, and inevitably, I bump into one of those few video interviews he gave the press, when Saint started M4 while his father kept assuring everyone that he gave his son “no more than three months to bankruptcy.”
“You are such a top-level douche-bag, and I am so glad Saint keeps proving you wrong,” I mutter at the man behind the podium.
Feeling worse and worse the more I see, I start to seriously consider my options and what I’ll do if Noel Saint succeeds in acquiring Edge. Jumping to my inbox, I scan the emails that I received when my article broke out and I wonder if those who reached out still want to interview me. Then I open another search engine and scan the job boards.
“Why are you checking the online ads?”
I lift my head distractedly to spot Valentine peering at my computer screen. “What?” I ask him.
“The ads. Why are you looking at online ads? Are you leaving?”
I glance around to make sure nobody else is hearing, then close my search, determined to make some calls later.
