I look up to my brothers, speechless.
I stare back down at the photo of Emily. She’s wearing her yellow dress . . . the same one she was wearing yesterday. My eyebrows rise by themselves as I try to make sense of this. “When was this taken?”
“No idea, but it had to be lately. She has the bracelet on that you bought her.”
I glance down to her arm, and sure enough, the diamond-and-gold bracelet is on her arm.
Can it be?
I frown—a clusterfuck of questions . . . not my Emily, no.
“We know it’s not you,” Elliot says. “You’ve been hacked; we will prove it. I promise you.”
“What?” I frown, unable to string a sentence together. I drag my eyes up to my brothers in confusion.
“There’ve been transfers, Jameson. Millions of dollars have left our bank accounts with your password,” Christopher says solemnly.
I narrow my eyes. “What are you talking about?” I whisper. “I don’t understand.” I glance back down at the image. “When was this photo taken?”
“This is a setup; I’m sure of it,” Tristan snaps. “Emily wouldn’t do this.”
“What?” I frown, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I run my two hands through my hair as I begin to perspire; adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Elliot snaps. “The timing of this image going to print is no coincidence.”
I frown as my eyes come to Elliot.
“Has Emily been in your apartment alone?” he asks.
I stare at him, my mind a clusterfuck of confusion.
“Has she had access to your computers, Jameson?” Christopher snaps.
I screw my face up. “Yes . . . but . . .”
They all sit back in their seats as if collectively coming to a conclusion.
I look between them. “What?” I whisper.
“I think Emily’s working with Gabriel Ferrara. It’s all a little bit too coincidental, if you ask me. She’s been sent in to keep you occupied while he planned your demise.”
“What?” I snap. “That’s preposterous.”
“Yes, it is,” Tristan agrees. “Fucking ridiculous.”
“Think about it,” Elliot snaps. “She conveniently shows up here and, within weeks, has you by the balls.”
“What?” I screw up my face. “Fucking bullshit.”
I reread the story as fury rages inside of me like never before.
Elliot hits the paper with the back of his hand. “What’s this fucking photo, then?”
“A setup,” Tristan snaps.
I stare at the image; she’s holding Jake’s hand and smiling as he kisses her . . . it looks like she’s happy to be there. My eyes flick to Tristan in question.
I have no idea what to think . . . what the actual fuck is going on here?
“I’m telling you, man, it’s a camera angle; you know better than anyone that the right angle can tell a completely different story,” Tristan says.
“Bullshit. Where there’s smoke there’s always fire,” Elliot growls. “Nevertheless, Emily Foster is fucking irrelevant right now. Deal with her later. You’re being accused of embezzlement. You could go to jail, Jameson.”
I run both of my hands through my hair as I bring my focus back to the facts.
I feel a surge of adrenaline rush throughout my body as my skin prickles.
“What’s happened?” I ask. I can hear my angry heartbeat in my ears.
“We’re not sure. Huge bank transfers have been coming out of the accounts, and nobody noticed,” Christopher replies.
“Going to where?” I frown.
“An offshore account.”
“How the fuck am I implicated in all of this?” I glance back down at the image of Emily kissing Jake, and I want to kill somebody . . . Gabriel Ferrara. “I don’t understand.” I drag my eyes to my brother to try and focus on the facts.
“It’s coming up that the transfers were made from your log-in details.”
“What?” I screw up my face in question. “That’s impossible; I haven’t been into our business accounts for months. I have no reason to.”
“That’s what I said,” Tristan snaps. “I handle the money side of things; you all know that.”
“We have the accounts and legal team meeting us at the office at eight,” Elliot replies.
My eyes flick to him. “Does Dad know?”
“Yeah.” He exhales heavily. “He’s meeting us there.”
I clench my jaw and stare out the window as we fly through the streets of New York.
Anger, confusion, and betrayal are all that I see.
I drag my hand down my face and inhale deeply as I try to slow my heart rate down. I feel crazier than ever before.
My reputation . . . my business.
My girl.
I stare out the window, and moments later we arrive at the Miles Media building. It’s just 7:20 a.m., and we make our way to the top floor. I need to be alone before the craziness begins.
I walk into my office, shut the door, and drop into my chair at my desk.
The room is silent . . . and empty.
Through my windows I can see bustling New York below as the city prepares for the day. Everything down there seems so normal . . . so in order.
My temper is simmering like a volcano and dangerously close to exploding.
I don’t know if I’m going to smash something or burst into tears.
Either way, I feel completely unstable.
With my elbows on the desk, I drop my head into my hands; my breath quivers on the intake as I try to calm myself down.
She told me she was going out with Molly and Aaron last night. I go over the conversation we had when she got home.
“How were your friends?” I asked.
“Great . . . it was good to see them,” she replied.
She lied.
I was at home missing her . . . and she was out with another man.
I get a lump in my throat as reality sets in.
I’ve been over here falling madly in love with her . . . while she’s been seeing someone else.
The door clicks, and I close my eyes to try and block out Tristan—I know it’s him.
He knows me better than anyone.
I hear him go to the bar and drop ice into two glasses, then the comforting sound of scotch being poured. He places one in front of me, and my heavy eyes rise to meet his.
He clinks his glass with mine as it sits in my hand. “Well, this day fucking sucks already.” He leans on my desk with his behind.
“You think?” I mutter as I take a sip. I feel the burn as it glides down my throat.
“When was the photo taken?” he asks.
“Last night.”
He frowns.
I clench my jaw as I stare out the window, ashamed that the woman I love doesn’t love me back. “She said she was out with Molly and Aaron.”
He sips his scotch and raises his eyebrows as if surprised that she lied. “I thought she was the one.”
I frown, my chest constricting once more. “That makes two of us.”
Silence hangs between us.
“Let’s just get through this day and prove your innocence.” He sighs as he drains his glass.
I nod.
He watches me for a moment, and eventually he asks, “You okay?”
I nod once, unable to push the lie past my lips.
“We will prove that you’re innocent, Jay.” He puts his reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I promise you.”
I drain my glass and go to the bar for a refill.
He watches me once more, and I know he’s choosing his words wisely. “Tell me that you’re all right.”
I roll my lips, and my eyes rise to his. “I’m all right.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to lose your shit and kill someone?”
“If you want to save a life today, get rid of Jake Peters.”
“It’s already done. I called and fired him this morning at five a.m., as soon as I saw the story.”
I take a sip of the amber fluid; it heats my throat as it goes down.
He pauses before he asks, “Do you want me to fire Emily?”
I stare out the window and over the city. “No.”
“I was thinking . . . ,” he continues.
“Get out,” I bark.
“But—”
“Now.”
The door clicks quietly behind him, and I stand and move to the window and stare out over the city.
Adrenaline surges through my body, and I feel the earth’s tectonic plates move beneath me. I sip my scotch as a cold, detached determination takes its place in my soul.
Nobody fucks with me like this and gets away with it.
Get ready to meet your maker, Mr. Ferrara.
Your day is near.
Emily
I bounce out to the waiting limo and see trusty Alan standing beside it. He opens the door. “Good morning, Alan.”
He nods. “Morning.”
I frown and get in. He’s not in a very good mood today. The door closes behind me, and I look around for the paper.
Hmm . . . Jameson must have taken it with him this morning. I’m still sleepy and lethargic. There’s a lot to be said for morning exercise—it definitely wakes you up for the day. I put my head back and close my eyes as we roll through the traffic.
What feels like ten minutes later, the car comes to a halt and switches off. I glance up. We are out in front of my apartment building. Huh?
Alan opens the door.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Mr. Miles instructed me to drop you here this morning.”
“What . . . why?”
“He suggested that you have the day off.” He gestures with his hand for me to get out of the car.
“Huh?” I frown. “What’s going on, Alan?”
“I’m not sure, but Mr. Miles said that he didn’t want you to come into the office and that he will be in touch.”
I screw up my face. “Be in touch—what does that mean? Why can’t I go to the office? I’m confused.”
“You need to get out of the car, Emily,” he asserts.
“What?”
He gestures again with his hand, and I get out in a huff.
“Has something happened?” I stammer as I brush past him. “Is Jameson all right?”
“You need to speak to him, Emily.”
“Fine, I will,” I snap as I take out my phone and dial his number.
“Goodbye, Emily,” Alan says before getting into the limo and quickly pulling out.
Jameson’s phone rings out. I call again . . . it goes straight to voice mail. He’s switched it off.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, annoyed.
I go to call Sammia, his PA, but then realize that it’s only eight o’clock—she isn’t even at work yet.
What the hell is going on? I cross the street and half walk, half run to the corner paper stall. I see the front page of the Gazette, and the blood drains from my face as I see a half-page picture of Jake and me kissing.
“Dear God,” I whisper. I read the story.
Jameson Miles—Media Guru’s Fall from Grace
In what appears to be the final nail in Jameson Miles’s media coffin, his fiancée, Emily Foster, has been having a secret affair. The two have been spotted in various locations and were snapped holidaying in Italy two months ago. Leaked bank statements released today prove that Jameson Miles has been embezzling money and transferring it to an offshore account. The board is expected to fire him as CEO of Miles Media today, and criminal charges will be laid. Looks like Emily Foster jumped ship just in time.
What?
My hand goes over my mouth in horror.
Oh my God, poor Jameson. “I’m not his fiancée, you fucking idiots,” I sneer. “How many things can you possibly fuck up in one story?”
I turn and begin to storm back to my apartment as I redial his number with a sense of urgency.
“Hey,” the paper man calls out to me. “You didn’t pay for that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize as I rush back to pay. “I was distracted. Thank you.”
Jameson’s phone goes straight to voice mail once more.
What do I do? What do I do? My shoulder slams into a man as he walks past.
“Hey, watch where you’re going,” he calls.
“Sorry,” I stammer.
I dial Tristan’s number.
“Hi, Em.”
“Tristan, what the hell is going on?” I cry.
“We’re in meetings; I’ll call you later.”
“What?”
He hangs up.
“Ahhh,” I cry. My eyes fill with tears of frustration.
He wouldn’t believe it. Surely, he knows it’s not true . . . but there’s a photo as evidence.
I dial Molly’s number.
“Hey, chick, do you want a coffee?” she asks chirpily.
“Molly,” I cry in relief that someone answers their damn phone. “Oh my God, it’s all lies.” I stop on the spot on the busy sidewalk and move to the side up against the building to talk.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Gazette,” I stammer. “Google the Gazette. There’s an image on the front page of me kissing Jake, and it says we are having an affair.”
“What?”
“Somebody must have been following me, or . . .” I shake my head as I try and think of a logical explanation. “What the fucking hell is going on?” I whisper angrily.
“Holy shit.” She pauses. “I see it. Wait . . . when the fuck did you kiss Jake?”
“He kissed me last night,” I stammer. “I didn’t kiss him back, for fuck’s sake. Do you—”
“Hang on; I’m reading,” she interrupts me.
I put my hand over my face as I wait for her to read.
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Alan brought me back to my apartment and told me not to come into work today.”
“What?”
“He said that Mr. Miles will contact me later.”
“Well, what did Jameson say?” she asks.
“He won’t answer his phone. I called Tristan, but he said they are in meetings, and he’ll call me later.”
“Holy . . . fucking . . . shit. This is bad.”
“You think?” I cry.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. What do I do?”
“Well, if Jameson told you to stay home, maybe you should.”
“Why?”
“Because he doesn’t need more attention; it says here he’s been accused of theft.”
My eyes widen as I imagine the media storm that’s going to come from this.
“But what if he believes this?” I stammer. “I’ve never been with Jake. This is complete bullshit. I love him.”
“He said he will be in touch . . . he will be.”
I listen as my mind runs at a million miles an hour.
“You’re just going to have to wait.”
I screw up my face in tears. “You don’t think I should come in?”
“God, no. He doesn’t have time to worry about you too.”
“But I didn’t do this,” I whisper.
“I know. I’ll go up and see him in his office and tell him everything.”
“You will?” I whisper hopefully.
“If you come in, Em, the whole building is going to attack you.”
I put my hands over my face in horror as I imagine everyone waking up to this story this morning. I’m going to be Miles Media’s public enemy number one.
“I’m going to get into work and find out what the hell is going on, and I’ll call you back, okay?” she says.
I nod, my eyes filled with tears. I can’t believe this is happening. “Okay.”
“Go back to your apartment and wait. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as I wait on the line. “Wait, what are you going to say to Jameson?”
“I’m just going to tell him the truth. I’ll call you back in half an hour.”
My shoulders slump. “Okay, thanks.” I hang up.
I walk from my kitchen and back to the living area. I turn and walk back the same route. It’s been forty minutes.
Jameson still isn’t answering his phone, and Molly hasn’t called me back.
What the fucking hell is going on over there?
I text Jameson a message.
I don’t know what the hell is going on.
That photo is a setup.
You know I love you and would
never do that.
Call me back, please.
I’m freaking out!!!
I throw my phone onto the lounge and continue my pacing. Why isn’t anyone calling me back?
I wait twenty minutes and then text Jameson again. My phone rings, and I scramble to answer it. It’s Molly.
“Hello.”
“Hi.”
“What happened?”
“I couldn’t get in to see him; he was in a meeting with the solicitors,” she whispers. “He’s got bigger things to worry about at the moment, Em. He could go to prison.”
I frown. What? “Oh my God.”
“Management is going nuts down here. I have to get off the phone before I get fired.”
“What?” My eyes fill with tears . . . I didn’t do this. “I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about the company right now. I need him to know that I didn’t do anything with Jake. That whole story is bogus.”
“I know. I’ll go back up in my lunch break. But for now, hang tight.”
I put my hand over my mouth as a roll of nausea fills my stomach.
“I’ll call you back as soon as I speak to him.”
I wait on the line, hoping for a miracle answer to come to us.
“Yeah, okay,” I whisper before hanging up the call.
I begin to pace once more with a new sense of urgency. What if he believes this?
What if the board believes that he stole the money?
What if he’s charged . . . and goes to prison?
Oh my God. I text him again.
I’m serious.
Call me back NOW!!
I’m losing my mind over here.
Another thirty minutes pass as I continue to pace. I can’t deal with this waiting. I call Molly, and it goes straight to voice mail. I hang up in a fluster and call Aaron. His phone rings out.
“What the actual hell!” I cry through tears. “What’s going on over there?”
I text Jameson again.
Call me now, or I’m coming into the office!!!!!!!!
I’m getting angry, you must know I’m frantic.
My phone rings, and the letter J lights up the screen. I pick up a rush. “Oh my God, Jay.”
“Hi,” he answers, monotone.
“What’s going on?” I whisper. “Jay. I can’t believe the lies. He kissed me once, and I slapped him across the face. I promise you that I’m not seeing that slimeball.”
He stays silent.
A sense of dread fills me. Why is he so quiet? “Jay.”
“You didn’t think to tell me about this?”
“It only happened last night.”
“You said you were with fucking Molly!” he screams.
My eyes fill with tears at the sound of his anger. “I know I did, but he said he had some information about the case, and I knew you wouldn’t want me to meet him alone.”
“I wonder fucking why?” he bellows.
I screw up my face. “Don’t be angry with me,” I whisper. “That picture is . . .” I shake my head as I try to articulate what it is that I want to say. “It’s taken out of context, I promise you.”
“I have to go. Stay out of sight. I don’t need to worry about you too.”
“What?” I stammer.
“I’m too busy.”
“Don’t go,” I plead. “Jay, we need to talk about this. I’ll come to your office now.”
“Don’t you dare,” he sneers.
My eyes widen. “What do you mean?”
“There are a million and fucking one people in my office right now, and I don’t have the fucking time to deal with your shit,” he growls.
I cringe . . . God, I’ve never heard him so angry. “Will I see you tonight?” I whisper.
“Goodbye, Emily.” The line goes dead.
I drop to the couch and stare at the wall . . . a sick sense of dread begins to sink in . . . he believes it.
Holy fuck.
Eight o’clock that evening
I sit on the lounge and listen to the sound of a movie as it plays on the television.
I can’t watch the news. I had to turn it off. It’s going on and on about the evidence building against Jameson and the embezzlement case.
My mind is miles away. Jameson hasn’t called me back all day, and I don’t know what’s going on over there at Miles Media, but I know it’s a media circus.
I’m torn between giving him the space that he needs and running to him as fast as I can. I’ve decided that I’m going to do as he asked and just stay here and sit tight. He will call me as soon as he can. I know he will, and he’s right—me being out and about will only add fuel to the fire. He really doesn’t need to worry about me, too, at the moment.
The magnitude of the situation has finally sunk in. What’s going to happen if they can’t find out who transferred that money?
How long can Jameson deal with this type of pressure?
With a lump in my throat I begin to pace. My carpet must be nearly threadbare after today’s pacing activities. I can’t remember ever being this stressed.
At eleven o’clock at night, I haven’t heard from Jameson, and I am sick with worry, literally.
I’ve thrown up twice. I decide to call him one last time . . . where is he?
With shaky fingers, I dial his number, and it rings and then goes to voice mail.
He’s declined the call. My heart sinks, and my eyes fill with tears.
“This is Jameson Miles; leave a message,” the recorded message plays.
“Hello.” I pause. “Jay,” I whisper. “Baby.” I get a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry for lying. I was trying to find out about the case, and then he kissed me and . . .” My voice trails off. “I know how this looks, but you have to believe me. I don’t even like Jake as a friend; you know that.” I walk to the window and stare out over the traffic. “I’m going out of my mind here . . . I love you.” I stay silent, unsure what to say. “Don’t let them poison your mind, Jay. You’re the only person who knows what we have,” I whisper through tears. “Come home to me, where you belong.” I pause, hoping that I’m getting through to him. “I don’t even want to hang up . . . I need you. Please come over . . . I’m begging.”
The other end stays deathly silent, and I screw up my face in pain.
“I love you,” I whisper. The beep sounds, and I am cut off. I throw the phone onto the lounge and begin to cry.
What the hell is happening?
With my heart in my throat, I walk into the Miles Media building. It’s eight thirty in the morning, and I’m coming to work.
Jay didn’t call me back last night, and I can’t say that I blame him.
I cried myself to sleep . . . well, I didn’t really sleep, so I don’t think it counts. I’ve got this sick lead ball in my stomach, and it won’t go away.
I have no one to blame for this fucking mess but myself. I lied to my love, and it backfired, and now he thinks the worst. So I’m here today to do the best job that I can of making it up to him.
He’s hurt . . . I know he is.
My poor man seemingly has the whole world against him, and I’m so worried about him. How much stress can a man take before he cracks?
I get into the elevator and swipe my security card to the top floors, and a red light comes up. I frown. No. I swipe it again, and the red light flickers again.
“No, Jay . . . don’t do this,” I whisper through tears. “Don’t you fucking lock me out.”
I swipe it again; the red light flickers once more. “You son of a bitch,” I whisper angrily. I hit the fortieth-floor button, and the green light appears. My heart begins to hammer hard in my chest. He’s blocked my access to his floor.
I take out my phone and text him.
Are you serious?
You can’t even talk to me?
The elevator doors open, and I stride out onto my floor as I try to calm my anger down.
I know he’s got a lot going on, but he knows this is hurting me, and he doesn’t seem to care.
Is this how he works? He’s just going to cut me from his life without even letting me explain? I sit at my desk and stare into space. My leg bounces in anger . . . what do I do? How do I make him understand that this is all a misunderstanding if he won’t even talk to me?
A group of girls walk out of the elevator and begin to walk down the corridor, and then they all stop on the spot when they see me, as if shocked. I stare at them, and they exchange looks and then smirk to each other. “Hi.” One of them fakes a smile.
“Hi,” I reply. I turn and switch on my computer. Great. Now I’m the office gossip as well—can this fucking situation get any worse?
“Yay, you’re here,” Molly’s familiar voice sounds from behind me.
I swing in my chair toward her, and her face falls when she sees mine. “Oh, baby,” she whispers as she puts her arms around me. “Are you all right?”
“He’s blocked my access to his floor,” I whisper against her shoulder.
“What?” she whispers as she fixes my hair. “He’s just . . .” She hesitates. “God, I don’t even know what to say, Em.”
I stare sadly at my computer.
“Let’s just get our work done, and we can brainstorm over lunch.” She smiles as she rubs my shoulder.
“Yeah, I guess.”
Over the next half hour, I watch on as everyone arrives for their day, sees me, and then proceeds to whisper to the person next to them.
I’m not only the office gossip; I’m the office slut. The idiot who played upon the CEO with the company douche . . . I’m embarrassed, I’m ashamed, and this is appalling.
It’s four o’clock, and Jameson hasn’t answered any of my calls. I think I’m losing my mind.
Aaron thinks I should give him time. Molly thinks I should be dropped onto his floor by a helicopter . . . either that or bomb the whole floor.
Me . . . I just want to crawl under a rock and hide.
Molly returns from the photocopy room and smiles sweetly over at me.
“What?”
“Say, ‘Thank you, Molly. You’re a lifesaver.’” She smirks.
She passes me over a security card, and I stare at it in my hand. “What’s this?”
“It’s Melissa’s card to get to the top floors. I stole it.”
My eyes widen. “You stole her card?” I whisper as I look around guiltily.
“How else are you going to get to see the stupid fuck?” she murmurs.
I smile at her perfect choice of words. “Thanks.” I go to the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
I look like shit. I drop my shoulders and inhale deeply as I steel myself. Let’s do this.
I take the elevator to the top floor, with my heart hammering hard in my chest. I have no idea what’s going to be awaiting me, but bring it the fuck on, because I’m getting angry now.
How dare he not even let me explain?
The elevator opens, and Sammia’s face drops as she sees me. “Emily,” she stammers as she stands. “Mr. Miles isn’t here.”
I storm past her and down the hall and open his door in a rush . . . and there he sits behind his desk, his cold, calm persona firmly in place.
Elliot is sitting with him, and his eyes snap up. “How did you get up here?”
My eyes find Jameson’s across the room, and I can see the hurt from here. “Can you give us a moment, please?” I ask.
“No,” Elliot snaps. “Leave now.”
My anger bubbles. “With all due respect, this is none of your business,” I snap.
Elliot narrows his eyes and stands. “How dare you—this is entirely my business!”
“Oh, I dare all right,” I fire back.
Jameson clenches his jaw, and Tristan comes into the office. His step falters when he sees me. “Emily.” He frowns as he looks between the three of us.
“Tristan, I need a moment with Jameson, please,” I ask him hopefully.
“Of course.” He forces a weak smile. “Out, Elliot.”
Elliot glares at me.
“Now,” Tristan repeats.
Elliot and Tristan leave the office, and we are left alone. Jameson stands and goes to the window, turning his back to me.
Oh God, how do I fix this? “Jay,” I whisper as I walk toward him. “Baby, I didn’t do this . . . you have to believe me. I know how this looks.”
He remains silent.
“He kissed me, and I slapped him, and I had no idea that someone took a photo,” I stammer.
Silence. I see his jaw clench from the side as he stares out over New York.
“Are you at least going to talk to me?” I cry. “Why did you block my access to this floor?”
He turns, angered. “Because I don’t trust you.”
I step back, shocked. “What?”
“You heard me. I don’t trust you. Get out.”
My face falls. “Jameson, I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”
“This has nothing to do with the fucking pressure I’m under!” he screams.
I wither. “You can trust me, I promise you.”
“Where did you tell me you were on Thursday night, Emily?” he sneers.
I stare at him through tears. “I was trying to find out information.”
“By lying to me?”
I nod. “I know it sounds like . . .”
“Like I can’t trust you.” He turns his back and lifts his chin skyward in defiance. “I have more to worry about at the moment than dealing with a deceitful girlfriend.”
“Jameson,” I whisper.
“We have nothing to further talk about, Emily . . . get out,” he says calmly.
“No,” I plead. “I’m not leaving. I love you.”
He turns, and his cold eyes hold mine. “Did you practice that speech?”
My heart drops . . . oh, he’s so hurt.
“Jay . . .”
“If you won’t leave . . . I will.” He strides toward the door, and it closes quietly behind him.
I close my eyes in the silence and inhale through my shaking chest.
Did he just end us?
This can’t be happening.
It’s six o’clock, and I’m sitting at the café across the street from Miles Media. I’m watching the media circus gather as they wait for Jameson to leave the building.
This embezzlement scandal is news . . . big news, and while the rest of the world is hanging on to the story, I’ve been on the edge of tears all day.
I don’t know what to do or how to reach him. He’s put his defenses up, and with everything else going on for him at the moment, I don’t know how hard I can push without him completely losing it.
I don’t want to stress him out further, but he needs me more than ever at the moment. I put my head into my hands. Why the hell did I go and meet Jake?
What the fuck was I thinking? How was that ever a good idea?
I go over that night in my head, and I can hear myself lying straight out to Jameson when I got home . . . why? At the time, I thought I was protecting him. I know better now. This is one big mess, and I have no idea how to fix it. My mind goes to the money that has been stolen from the accounts. They all think it’s Ferrara, but why would Ferrara, a man who already makes billions of dollars a year, risk it all to take down a competitor? It just doesn’t make sense to me.
In my eyes, the person who has stolen the millions needs the millions.
But who is it, and how the hell did they get access to Jameson’s banking details?
There’s more to this case than meets the eye.
Molly, Aaron, and I are having a crisis breakfast meeting tomorrow, and hopefully together we can brainstorm a plan of action. I hear a flurry of excitement, and I look up to see Jameson walk from the building, flanked by security as the reporters clamber around him, shouting his name and clicking photos. He keeps his head down and doesn’t comment and then climbs into the back of his limo.
It pulls out from the curb and whisks him away into the night . . . and farther away from me.
An overwhelming sadness seeps into my bones.
How can I help him?
“Okay, so here are the facts,” Molly states. We’re at breakfast trying to dissect my mess of a life. I’m more zombie than human, having not slept for two nights. I’m on my second coffee, and it’s seven o’clock. “You lied to Jameson about where you were going and went out to dinner with Jake,” Molly says.
I roll my eyes.
“You got home and then lied again to Jameson about where you had been.”
I blow out a deep breath. “Correct.”
“Now,” she continues, “Jameson’s whole life is falling apart, and he is being accused of a crime that he didn’t do.”
“Yes,” I snap before I sip my coffee.
“The entire world is watching, and you are public enemy number one.”
“How is this fucking helping me?” I stammer.
Aaron and Molly make eye contact across the table. “This doesn’t look good,” Aaron says.
“I know.” I put my head into my hands. “I don’t know how to help him. I’ve completely screwed everything up. I’m the villain in this story, and I want to be the hero.”
Silence falls across the table as we sip our coffees.
Aarons eyes light up. “I’ve got it.”
“Huh?”
“I know how you could be the hero.”
I roll my eyes. “How?”
“Solve the case . . . you’re a reporter; you’ve done this shit before.”
I sit up, suddenly interested.
“Those private investigators are obviously fucking useless; they are doing nothing.”
“That’s true.” I frown. “But I don’t know anything about computers. Where would I even start trying to track those transfers?”
“I don’t know, but finding out where that money has gone yourself does seem like the only way you are getting Jameson out of this.” Molly shrugs. “We could help?”
I think about it for a moment. Why couldn’t I do this myself? I’ve cracked cases before—big cases too.
“You know what—you’re right.” I feel a fire start in my stomach. “I am going to find out who’s doing this.”
Molly and Aaron smile.
“And when I do”—I punch my hand into my fist—“they will wish they were fucking dead for messing with my man.”
“Attagirl.” Molly smiles. She and Aaron high-five each other.
I smile as I sip my coffee, and for the first time in days, I feel hopeful. I hold my coffee cup up, and we all clink cups. “To Operation Hero.”
I run down the street as fast as I can, my mind a clouded fog. With every step that I run . . . the better I feel. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her . . . three days incarcerated in hell.
I can’t see her. I can’t put myself in that position ever again.
Nobody is worth feeling this bad for . . . nobody.
I turn the corner and run past a row of restaurants and get to a park, and I see a person up ahead in the darkness.
Their stance seems familiar, and I squint my eyes to try and see.
As I run, a cold sense of realization hits me as to who it is. Gabriel Ferrara. He’s on the phone and smoking a cigar as he leans on his black Ferrari. He hasn’t seen me.
I stop running and pant as I approach him. Fucking dog.
I’m furious that he put that photo of Emily on the front page of his paper. It was a direct attack on me . . . and it hit the target.
Turning, he sees me, and his face falls. “I’ve got to go.” He hangs up his call.
“Look what crawled out of the gutter,” I pant.
He smirks as he inhales on his cigar. “Miles.”
I glare at him.
“How’s that girl of yours?” he asks with a wink. “You should put her on a leash.”
I glare at him.
He flicks his cigar at me; my fury begins to bubble.
I step forward.
“You know she made a move on me. Seems like you’ve lost your edge with everything: the company, the bank accounts. Sex. How does it feel to have your woman search for someone who can satisfy her needs?”
All I can see is red . . . blinding anger.
I lose control and punch him hard in the face, and then I hit him again and again in quick succession.
He falls to the ground beside his car, and I hear someone yell, “Call the police!”
“Fuck . . .” I look down to his slumped body and the blood pouring from his nose.
What have I done?
I turn and sprint as hard as I can into the darkness. I run down a block and cut through a park as I hear a police siren in the distance.
Fuck.
I run across the street, and a car comes out of nowhere.
Bright lights, car horn, blurred vision.
It hits me, and I go flying into the air.
Darkness . . . nothing.
