The silence broke like a dam, whispers rushing between attendees. Cameras clicked in rapid succession. Someone near the back let out a low whistle.
Eleanor didn’t move to take the drive. No one moved at all, as if waiting to see if this was some elaborate prank.
My father stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “That’s enough,” he said, voice controlled but clearly hiding his fury. “Step away from the podium. Now.”
I ignored him, my eyes still on Eleanor Trolio. “I understand if you need to take legal action against me. I understand if Modern Wedding wants to distance itself from me entirely. All I ask is that you consider Mari for the position I was offered under false pretenses.”
Slowly, Eleanor stepped forward and took the USB drive from my hand, her fingers cold against mine.
“Thank you for your... candor, Mr. Gable,” she said, her voice tight. “I think we need to adjourn this press conference and discuss these matters privately.”
But reporters were already typing furiously on their phones. Photographers had captured every moment of my confession. By this afternoon, the story would be everywhere.
I stepped away from the podium, my legs surprisingly steady for someone who’d just committed professional suicide. As I moved toward the exit, my father intercepted me, grabbing my arm with enough force to leave marks.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” he hissed, face flushed bright red. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done? To yourself? To our family?”
I met his gaze without flinching. “I’m doing what I should have done from the beginning. Telling the truth.”
“The truth? The truth is that you’re weak. Always have been. One pretty face in a cheap dress, and you throw away everything we’ve built.”
“You didn’t build anything for me,” I replied, heat rising in my chest. “You built it for yourselves. For the Gable legacy. I was just the vessel for your ambition.”
My mother appeared beside him, tears threatening to ruin her perfect makeup. “Hudson, please. This isn’t like you. We can fix this. We can talk to Eleanor, explain that you were confused, under pressure?—”
“I’m not confused. For the first time in my life, I’m seeing clearly.” I removed my father’s hand from my arm. “I’m sorry to disappoint you both. Again. But I’m not sorry for what I just did.”
My father’s face hardened into something ugly and unfamiliar. “You’re no son of mine,” he said, voice flat. “Don’t bother coming home for the holidays. Don’t call. Don’t write. You’re done. You’re not a Gable.”
Something inside me snapped.
“Fuck the Gables,” I said, loud enough for nearby journalists to hear. “I don’t want your damn family name if it means hurting others and being a dick to get ahead. That’s your legacy, not mine.”
My father’s eyes widened. In three decades, he’d never heard me swear, much less publicly denounce the family name. My mother gasped, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth.
“I’m sorry for what I did to Mari,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “I should’ve done this sooner.”
I turned and walked away, past the stunned faces and whispered conversations, ignoring Eleanor Trolio’s attempt to catch my attention.
The elevator doors closed behind me, finally cutting off the chaos I’d left in my wake. My phone immediately vibrated with incoming calls and messages—industry contacts, former clients, probably my father’s attorney. I silenced it without looking.
In the mirrored wall of the elevator, I caught my reflection again. Same suit. Same tie. Same professionally styled hair. But something had changed in my eyes. Maybe it was a miracle, but it seemed like those dead green eyes had been resurrected. And maybe there was hope that the same thing could happen for a beautiful pair of blue eyes I couldn’t erase from my mind.
By the time I reached the lobby, journalists who hadn’t been invited to the press conference were already gathering, word having spread through social media about the dramatic confession upstairs. I pushed through them without comment, their questions becoming a meaningless buzz as I stepped onto the sidewalk.
A taxi pulled up, and I slid into the back seat before anyone could follow me.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
Good question. I had no destination. No plan. No future mapped out in fifteen-minute increments the way Arthur Gable had taught me.
“Just drive for a bit, please,” I said, loosening my tie. The tie my mother had sent as a gift, the tie that suddenly felt like a noose.
As the taxi pulled into traffic, I took out my phone and scrolled through the notifications until I found what I was looking for—Mari’s contact. My thumb hovered over her name.
What right did I have to contact her now? Would she even want to hear from me? Probably not. But she deserved to know what had happened. She deserved to know that her idea was hers again, that the truth was public, that Modern Wedding might contact her soon with an opportunity that rightfully belonged to her.
I started typing, deleted it, and started again. Nothing seemed adequate. Nothing could undo what I’d done.
