“I have to go.”
“Daniel, wait—”
“I’ll handle it. Bye.”
I end the call before she can argue, and when I try calling Trevor back, it goes straight to voicemail. Fine. I’ll deal with him later.
Right now, I need to think. The idea of a fake relationship to fix my image is ridiculous, cheap, and manipulative, precisely the kind of thing Cassidy accused me of.
But the more I think about it, the more it makes twisted sense. Bailey is different; she’s grounded and composed. Honestly, she’d handle it better than most. But the problem is, well, clear.
I start the car and pull back onto the highway.
The drive home is shorter than usual. Or maybe I was just driving too fast, and the angry honks I ignored were meant for me after all. By the time I park in my building’s garage, I’ve convinced myself this was a terrible idea. By the time I’m in the elevator, I’ve reconsidered. By the time I’m in my penthouse, staring at the city lights, I’m already planning how to ask.
I pour myself a neat scotch I can’t bring myself to drink. Instead, I pull out my phone and open a new message to Bailey.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard.
This is wrong. This crosses every line. This puts her in an impossible position.
I type anyway.
Come to my office on Monday morning please. Important.
I hit send before I can change my mind.
Then I pour the scotch down the sink and make myself coffee instead.
The weekend drags on, and I try to bury myself in work. I bounce between drafting presentations, answering emails, and preparing forTuesday’s board meeting, but focus is impossible. Every thought keeps looping back to Bailey and the look I imagine she’ll give me when I tell her this wild idea. I can practically see her pausing just long enough to decide which pair of heels to throw at me first.
I sigh, leaning back in my seat.
I guess we’ll have to see.
***
Monday morning arrives.
I’m in my office by six, building my argument. By eight thirty, I’m pacing. By nine, I’m standing at my window watching the street below. At nine fifteen, my assistant buzzes. “Ms. Rodgers is here.”
My pulse kicks up. Here we go.
“Send her in.”
I move behind my desk just before the door opens.
Bailey walks in wearing a charcoal skirt and a burgundy blouse. It’s amazing how she always manages to be so put together.
“Ms. Rodgers. Thank you for coming.”
“It’s not like I had a choice.” She stays near the door. “What’s this about?”
“Sit. Please.”
She hesitates, then crosses to the chair, settling on the edge like she’s ready to bolt. I remain standing.
“I assume you saw the article.”
