Tessa scans the pages. “This is more like a restructuring package. There’s a three-month payout, and they’re not stopping your health benefits either.”
“Thank God for small mercies.”
“And here’s a non-disclosure agreement. Mia Reed…extortion…blah-blah-blah, privacy…Pfft,” Tessa says on a huff.“They should have forced you to sign it this morning. Just shows they’re a bunch of idiots.”
I sit straighter. “I already have a non-disclosure agreement with them in place.” One I’ve breached a few times with Tessa. Sometimes the gossip is too juicy to revel in alone, but I trust my roomie. Nothing will go beyond these four walls.
“This one is specific to the video incident,” Tessa says. “There might be a few new clauses.”
“Ugh.”
She tosses the papers onto the coffee table. “You’ve got to tell him, Lexi.”
“No.” I sound so resolute, my voice rattles me a bit. Tessa is the only one who knows I recognized The Head.
“It’s yourjob! You got fired or restructured or whatever the heck this is because ofhisactions. He’s getting away with proverbial murder here.”
“What would it even help?” In my mind, snitching will only tarnishme.
We have a staring contest for a moment, but I’m the one to look away first.
“Who knows how it would help, Lexi. Stop being such a pushover.”
Her words hit several nerves, riling me up. “We didn’t have the talk about being exclusive.”Firstly. Secondly, he blindsided me so hard?—
“What the hell, Lexi? There’shaving the talk about being exclusiveand then there’s sucking off a celebrity guest at work and being caught on camera. If he were still at St Chalamet, he’d be on his knees begging you to keep quiet.”
She’s right. And I’m an idiot. A few weeks ago, I was still in the throes of a crush on Brent Fisherman, late thirties, hot as all fuck, and so sure of himself as the second in command to the general manager. Staff at St Chalamet isn’t supposed tofraternize or date, for obvious reasons. How many would sneak off and have sex in empty rooms or other corners of the hotel if it were par for the course? Enough that the hotel would malfunction.
What Brent knew, and I didn’t, was that he was being headhunted by a Chinese five-star hotel group and had been negotiating his flamboyant exit for months. During his last weeks at St Chalamet, he toyed with me—after hours and never at St Chalamet. At work, our interactions—to my infatuation-frazzled mind—were super cute and flirty when out of earshot, but utterly professional everywhere else. I can see the game he played now, but at the time I was too flattered to be the center of his attention, tomean so much to himand to be theperfect girland know he’dnever dated someone this hot. God. He’d sussed out my every insecurity, and I’d fed into it as if I were starving. He was gone the day after I walked in on Mia Reed. Not only because Brent Fisherman is a dick, but he’s also the owner of The Head between Mia Reed’s thighs.
If someone’s head should roll…
What game were they playing? I mean, it’s almost as if they wanted to get caught on camera. For the two months I was Brent’s secret seasonal flavor—his pumpkin spice latte, to be exact—I didn’t pick up on any exhibitionist vibes. But he knew the ins and outs of the security system at the hotel, and they should have been able to skirt them all, playing hide-and-go-seek.
I was the idiot who took him up on his first and only invitation to meet him in that banquet room, late at night, after the press and other influencers who came to interview Mia Reed, had left.
It’s one thing to have something going with another staff member off site. To have the blind infatuation to think Brent Fisherman called me up to the banquet room for a little trystbecause he couldn’t keep his hands off me after a long day of subtle teasing and not-so-subtle innuendo was pure, undiluted idiocy.
Me, men, and idiocy. The perfect trifecta of shame.
I close my eyes with a groan. “No. Brent’s gone to Beijing. There’s no point.” Nobody there is going to care what happened at a hotel on this side of the planet. I was an idiot for falling for him in the first place. Pointing out that he was involved with Mia Reed would only unearth my secret affair with him and put me in a terrible light. I can’t have that blight added to my reputationnow—it’s hanging by a thread as it is, and HR would change St Chalamet’s squeaky-clean referral if they knew. They might have their suspicions, but they’re only suspicions and must stay that way. At that thought, I blurt out, “I’m leaving New York.”
Tessa blinks. “To go where?”
“Evan said I can stay with him until I’ve sorted myself out with a new job.”
“Okay.” She nods in thought. “Honestly, it’s for the best. Can you imagine the circus if Mia Reed doesn’t pay them and that video hits social media?” Tessa shakes her head as a pit opens deep in my gut.Thatis literally the last thing I need, and at the thought a cold fever spreads over my skin. “You have to admit, she has a bit of an unconventional approach to self-marketing, and right now, this could find the mark perfectly for her.”
Don’t I know it. Mia Reed is famous for two things: being a brilliant actress—rumor has it she’ll be nominated for an Oscar again next year, for a remake ofDangerous Liaisonsno less—and for a sexting scandal when she hit her first Hollywood high three years ago in another steamy role.
I suck on my lip. Chances are slim, but they are there, that Mia Reed will decide,Screw it, let the world have an eyeful of me. It’s not as if they haven’t seen it before.
It would be a circus. The video would go viral.Iwould be all over social media.My facelinked to a nationwide—even worldwide—sex scandal. My jacket slipping from my arm. My hand traveling up to my top button.Guilty for all to see.
Dad. Oh God.
I’ve experienced the media circus that could follow in the aftermath of breaking the rules once before. Yes, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t a sex scandal, but once, even indirectly and vaguely similar, is enough to last a lifetime.
