And the kind of silence that could cause organ failure.
Nate looks at me like he’s seen a ghost.
He drags both hands through his hair, gripping at the roots.
His voice cracks as he hisses:
“SERIOUSLY, COHEN BECKER? If Heart finds out, we aredone. We are SO FUCKED.”
38
Conspiracy Theories and My (Probable) Funeral.
Sloane
It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the last disaster I personally detonated—aka having sex with Cohen-I-Want-to-Forget-HimBecker under a steaming shower—and in my naïveté, I truly thought I’d hit rock bottom.
Sure, a rock bottom that was… extremely exciting and rewarded me with the best orgasm of my entire existence, but still. Rock bottom.
I thought,Hey, Sloane, nothing can be worse than walking downstairs in his sweats and stilettos in front of his manager and Dominic Voss.
Spoiler: oh, it can.
Rock bottom has a trapdoor.
And under that trapdoor?
My office.
Because right now, at this exact moment, I am barricaded within these stylishly painted walls with Cohen while both of us endure the biggest, most catastrophic scolding of our lives—delivered by none other than Julian Heart himself.
Yes. My father.
He’s been roaring for a solid forty minutes, his baritone vibrating the glass top of my desk. Forty minutes of pacing across the parquet, brandishing the “evidence” of our crime.
Forty minutes—the longest amount of uninterrupted time I’vespent with him since… tea together.
A lifetime ago.
Irony. My constant companion.
Dad slams yet another copy of the paper onto my desk, as if physically assaulting it might kill the scandal at its root.
“WILL ONE OF YOU EXPLAIN WHAT THE HELL YOU WERE DOING TOGETHER LAST NIGHT?!”
I want to disappear.
Vanish.
Evaporate.
Fall through a crack in the floorboards.
I’d happily choose being run over by a hay tractor.
But above all… I am going to murder Francis the next time he crosses my path. Slowly. Painfully. With creativity.
Dad keeps waving around that cursed newspaper.
