Like he’sencouragingme to end all interactions immediately, rather than continue getting to know Alexander.
There’s no expression on his face as he studies me, like a poker player trying to read my hand, but I hold all the power here. So, I throw caution to the wind and ask the question that’s been on my mind all evening.
“And this Rita woman. Has she signed one of these?” I rest my hand atop the documents.
Paul shifts in his chair, crossing his right leg over his left.
“That’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Well, if you want me to sign one of these before you leave the room, then I need to know.” I can feel my forehead wrinkling.
He pauses momentarily, as if weighing up whether to share something or not. Opens his mouth, then closes it. He adjusts himself in his seat and inhales deeply.
“If you’re trying to ask me if Rita is his type, then I think you already know by virtue of the fact that I’m in here asking you to sign one of these documents.”
My gaze goes to the laptop again.
So, all of that isn’t true. Everything I read was fabricated?
I can’t believe I just wasted the last couple of hours spiraling. Thinking that Alexander and Rita were hooking up and that everything that’s happened in the past seventy-two hours was all a figment of my imagination.
I look back at both documents one more time. The easy way out is on the left. The road less traveled is on the right. I take two deep breaths, close my eyes as I reach for the pen, and grab the stack of papers, filling out my details at the top and signing the bottom of each page before handing it over to Paul. I catch a brief look of ire on his face, gone in the blink of an eye, before his poker face returns.
Did he not want me to sign that document?
Did he expect me to take the money and run?
“Right.” Paul slaps his knees, slides the paperwork back into the folder, and stands up, signaling the end of this meeting. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Will I be getting a copy of that?” I force myself up from the armchair and point to the document, now tucked away in the folder again.
“No need,” he says, making the short journey to the doorand letting himself out without another word. The door closes quickly behind him.
A pang in my stomach instantly appears, and a wave of regret washes over me. I rush to the door, opening it, but a quick look in both directions reveals that Paul has already disappeared.
I close the door and put my back up against it, sliding down to the ground. I drop my head into my hands.
Did I just sign the wrong document?
11.Alexander
Sunday
Paul
You were right.
Ican hear Paul’s voice in those three words, spoken through gritted teeth. There’s a distinct coldness, a reluctance to admit that I was right and he was wrong.
I should stop this car, run into the art gallery opposite, and have them print the text out so I can hang it in the window for all to see: Paul O’Neil admits he is wrong.
My whole body is giddy with excitement. Paul’s text confirms what I thought: Christopher is interested inme,not in the money.
It’s horrible to have to put these things in place, but I had to start questioning everyone’s intentions after my popularity skyrocketed. It began with family members and friends who were selling me out to make a quick buck, but then escalated when unfinished tracks were leaked online before they were ready to be heard. The situation with Roy was just the cherry on the top.
At one point, I couldn’t work out who was leaking stuff to the media, so Connie came up with a plan. I adopted a dog and told everyone who asked about it a different name—keeping its real name under wraps. But when an article appeared in the press saying the dog’s name was Bailey, I was heartbroken. Of all the people to sell me out, I had never expected it to be my younger brother.
I confronted Harrison about it, and at first he denied it. But I had evidence this time. When our parents made him log into his bank account, we saw regular deposits of not insignificant amounts of money.
