I roll my eyes as raucous applause flies from the audience, and I watch on the big screen as Spencer’s irises turn liquid black.
He shoots a wide grin at the crowd. “In fact, I’ve been an advocate of feminism for years, before it became the mainstreamthing endorsed by celebrities. And with my idea, we can bring feminism into the future.”
Oh my god, what does that even mean? I scan the crowd; it’s a sea of men, and they are eating this up. If it were women in the audience, they’d see right through this embarrassing display of pseudo-support. But these men haven’t had a lifetime of figuring out if a man is an actual feminist or whether they are just saying things to get what they want. And what man in the crowd, in the face of all his colleagues and industry leaders, would denounce supporting women?
The applause continues. Spencer clasps his hands together and lowers his head toward the ground. Spencer fuckingbows. My hands shake with frustration as I pick up the remaining few pieces of paper off the floor.
A cocktail of emotion roils in my chest; I’m glad this is going well, but he’s making promises I can’t keep. He’s making a mockery of my plan. My heartbeat races, bouncing around my rib cage like a knocked-over basket of tennis balls. This is my fault. Why did I do this? Why did I let him go out there? Why did I risk everything for this? If this doesn’t work, it will all be for nothing. The bad thing will all be for nothing.
If a woman got up and said they support women’s rights, nobody in this room would give a shit. Because it’s a man, all of a sudden “giving women the same respect and access as men” makes him look like the Second Coming. My head pounds and spins at the same time, like a snow globe full of needles.
An energetic murmur settles among the crowd as Spencer returns to his seat on the stage.
My hands shake as my phone begins to vibrate aggressively.Social media notifications catapult across the screen. Over one hundred mentions from accounts and publications covering the event. Shit, is the competition live streamed? Spencer went off script and it was recorded in 4K. My throat goes tight, an invisible hand cutting off my air supply until I see dark spots.
I know we’re lying, but now he’s straight up LYING.
I shrink into the edges of the side stage until I’m shrouded in darkness, the constant flashing light from my phone screen making me even dizzier. My back presses against the cold concrete wall, and I slide down until I hit the floor; my heavy head hangs in between my legs as I try to breathe slowly.
Punctuating the ringing in my ears, I hear footsteps approaching me.
“Are you okay, miss?” An Italian man places his hand on my back, making me jolt upright.
“What?” I ask, my voice slow and cracking.
“Are you all right?”
Wiping the tears lingering on my lash line, I squeak out, “Yeah, I’m fine.” My head whips around, looking for the fire exit. My hands move over the walls, searching for some sort of door, until I find a crease and push the door open.
Once I’m outside at the back of the concrete parking lot, my breathing sharpens, trying desperately to get air beyond the barrier in my throat into my lungs. After a few minutes crouched in the corner, my body and brain start to calm down.
The panic and urgency curdle into outrage. I’ve spent the past few days worrying so much about whether Spencer will be okay. I never thought to worry about if he would deliberately fuck everything up. Why would he go rogue like that? He has no reason other than humiliating me and sabotaging the company to make himself the star. When we were children, he used to push me out of the way so he could have all the attention, and he’s still doing it. Except this time, he put my company, my entire life on the line.
My loafers slap against the patterned carpet as I stride back through the hotel. I would go back to my room, but I need to pace. In fact, I need to get out of here. Before I can think twice, I’m out the door, walking down the darkened street. The sounds of cars and people chatting and laughing settle on my chest as my warm anger breathes out of me, immediately neutralizing against the chilled evening air. It’s 6 p.m. and the sun has just set, but as Italians don’t eat early, most restaurants are still empty. The quiet is a welcome reprieve from the competition.
My feet stomp down the road for a few minutes until I realize I have no idea where I’m going. I slide my cold hand into my coat pocket and feel a crinkle against my phone. Pulling out the note from Oliver, I open Google Maps and look up the bar written in scratchy handwriting. It’s an eight-minute walk away.
You know what? Fuck Spencer and fuck this. Cecily was right; I deserve a break.
Chapter 8
Business Account (WYST) BALANCE: £9,485.44
Personal Account BALANCE: -£1,986.62
The windows of L’ultima Goccia glow in shades of red and yellow, the flicker of candlelight a stark contrast to the bright tubular fluorescent fixtures and sharp green spotlights of the auditorium. It looks cozy, the comforting bursts of laughter and song spilling onto the street, easing the tension in my chest within seconds.
I just want to sit in silence and have a drink, maybe some meat and cheese.
The creaking wooden door is barely audible over the raucous noise filling every corner and crack of the battered brick walls. My eyes snag on a couple of empty seats at the edge of the bar. I take the farthest one on the right-hand side, where the bar top starts to curve along the edge.
Pretending to respond to emails on my phone, I watch red baskets lined with yesterday’s newspaper appear from the swinging kitchen door, fried calamari piled high. As a plate of burrata, carpaccio, and grilled eggplant makes its way to a table, a tall figure fills my periphery.
“You made it.” His low timbre coats the seething anxiety flowing through my veins.
I turn my chair on the swivel, laying my phone face down on the bar and cocking my head to the side. “Disappointed?”
Oliver stifles a smile, chin lowering to meet my eyeline. “Far from it, I was hoping you’d show.” His fingers pinch the sides of a sweating glass.
