Usually, the rich, dark brown wood of the desk, floors, and the bookshelf at the far end would ground me in such a modern space, but today, it feels unexplainably cold. I collapse onto the leather seat behind my desk, replaying that conversation in my mind.
That wasnoton my list of things to do for the day.
I came into the office with two goals—to send my lawyer enough evidence to prove Carter stole my presentation, and toget through the thousands of emails piling up since the conference.
I thought the spark controversy was now old news, but clearly it isn’t.
With a shake of the head, I push the thought aside, proceeding with my first task of the day.
I scour everything we have on the project Carter stole—how far it dates back, our concept ideas, and the impending patent we hold. I pack it all into one email to my lawyer, getting her usual immediate reply of "Thank you. We’ll keep you updated,"just as Melanie barges through my office doors.
“Good morning!” The dirty blonde chirps with a wide smile.
Her hair is down, and there’s no sharp pencil sticking out of her bun.Odd. I haven’t seen her this happy since before my reputation went to shit.
“What’s with the positive attitude?” I nod in her direction.
Melanie fakes a gasp, hand pressing over her heart. “Can’t a girl be joyous?”
“No,” I reply genuinely. “The last time we talked, you yelled at me, called me an imbecile, and threatened to point a high-pressure water gun at me if things don’t fix themselves. So, no, a girl can’t be happy.”
Melanie shrugs. “I guess this is the version of me you get when you’re not hated by everyone…don’t get used to it, though.” She gives me a pointed look, and I roll my eyes in disbelief.
A satisfied smirk tugs on her lips as she opens her laptop and swivels it around to show me those ridiculous tabloid articles. The PTSD from that time Adam forced me to read these is still very much present, but I do so, nonetheless.
Beauty and Brains: Why Women Can’t Get Enough of Nate Archer.
A compliment—but I’m not sure why that matters when they know I only care about one. I don’t dwell on it and move to the next article.
Standing Ovation? More like Scrambling to Get Our Lives Together—Here’s How Nate Archer Managed to Inspire Everyone at This Year’s Global Aviation Forum.
Then the next.
Lovebirds Celebrate—Power Couple, Nate Archer and Fiancée Enjoy a Private Moment After Stellar Presentation.
Melanie zooms in on the picture used for the front page of this article—Vivienne and I backstage, my hands cupping her face and our foreheads pressed together as we look into each other’s eyes.
It was a happy moment; one I thought would stay between us. And while I do care about the invasion of privacy, it’s their use of“power couple”in the subtitle that baffles me. Only days earlier, they had claimed our relationship was fake—but that just goes to show how quickly the narrative can shift when the media wants it to.
“Is this the reason you told me to stop planning the PR dates?” Melanie catches me off guard with her inquiry.
I meet her eyes straight on, unwavering. She clearly knows the answer to that question, and I’m not looking to entertain it. When a moment passes and I still haven’t answered, she shakes her head in disbelief, a wry smile tugging at her lips.
“Did I not warn you not to get involved with your fake fiancée?”
My jaw grows taut, and my knuckles turn white from the hard clench of my fist. Maybe she did, or maybe she didn't, but—“As far as I know, it doesn’t concern you.”
“It does concern me as your PR agent. If this thing comes to an end before the intended timeframe, it’ll only look worse for you in the media.”
I face her gaze head-on.
I’m a grown-ass man, one who makes his own damn decisions, and it isn’t up to my twenty-two-year-old cousin to comment on it. If I get scorned in the end, so be it.
“You’re just going to stay silent?” My cousin raises a brow at me.
I refrain from rolling my eyes. “There are more important matters at hand—like the cause of the spark.” Melanie’s features harden as I recount everything I was told in the elevator.
Within milliseconds of the end of my story, she’s clacking away at her laptop, putting to use what I can only assume are her impeccable stalking skills.
