I’ve taken only a couple of steps toward the stairs before a hand lands on my arm.
“That was a quick ten min—” My whole body freezes as my eyes cut to the last person I want to see right now. Malcolm, in a full tuxedo with tails, grins at me, his yellowing teeth on show.
“Good evening,Violet.” The way he says the word shows his intent immediately.
The blood drains from my cheeks as I violently shake my head. “No, you can’t be here.”
His clammy fingers grip my wrist. “I’m a journalist. I can be wherever I deem a good story to be.” He looks me up and down, getting his fill of every curve of my frozen body. “Nice dress, shall we dance?” He pulls me in the direction of the crowd.
“Fuck you,” I spit, forcing myself to follow without making a scene. One wrong move and this could all be over. I glance at Oliver, his eyebrows forming a subtle line in the middle as he watches Malcolm lead me to the dance floor, my arms stiff by my sides. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I urge my face to explain the entire situation to him, but how am I meant to start summarizing what’s happening? My heart pounds like a jackhammer as we enter the throng of couples, blending into the sea of men and women enjoying the music. Malcolm flicks me around until I’m facing him. A dress with a fitted skirt and stiletto heels is now a regretful decisionbecause I can’t bolt away or knee him in the balls as his hand slithers down me and rests on my lower back. He takes my other hand in his and begins to lead me in a dance. My eyes are jumping from face to face, trying to find Spencer in the crowd for help and avoiding looking straight into Malcolm’s jet-blue vacant stare. Bile runs up my throat as I try not to think about the last time he had his hands on me, how just like now, he took a moment of intimacy and turned it into a weapon of humiliation.
His mouth moves to my ear, leaving a permanent imprint on my skin. “Smile, Jess, or I will go to the front of the stage and announce everything you’ve done through the fucking speakers.”
My eyes sting as I draw a weak smile across my face. “Did you come all the way here just to drop your article?”
He grins, pushing his hand on my back so my body presses into him. Dancing cheek to cheek with him makes the champagne in my stomach turn sour. Sensing me trying to pull away, his stubble claws at my face as he tightens his grip.
“Funny you should mention my article. Since I last saw you, I’ve been doing some thinking. I was misguided when we last spoke.” He pulls away from me, a wide cheery smile on his face for everyone else in the crowd. “Spin.”
My eyebrows furrow at the word, not realizing it’s an instruction as he twists me around, forcing me to twirl so fast I stumble and nearly fall over my feet. My eyes scan the crowd as I turn, looking up to find Oliver now on the upstairs balcony focusing on me. The moment is gone too quickly to try and translate the look on his face. And how could I even begin to explain this situation in a single glance? How do you explain that yes, this is the man I confided in you about, the man whodid that to me; we haven’t reconciled; yes, he is the reason I left you, but only because I’m hiding my true identity from you and he knows the truth.
My stomach twists as I’m brought back to Malcolm, gripping his shoulder to stop myself from falling. “You’ve finally come to your senses and realized blackmail is illegal?”
He laughs like I’ve just said something terribly charming and plants a kiss on my cheek. Dread fills my chest at what Oliver is seeing right now. If he recognizes Malcolm from the mixer party in Paris, we must look like two former lovers finally reconciling.
“If we’re talking aboutwhois doingwhatillegal things, Jess, I think you’re in the lead.”
I don’t reply, instead closing my eyes to stop the tears from falling and pray for this dance to be over.
“Smile,” he instructs. “This is good news for you. I’m delaying my exposé.”
My chest halts, waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want nothing more than to pry myself from his grip and run in the opposite direction, but I ask with a weak smile on my face, “Why?”
He gives me a soft smile, running a hand up my arm. “Because I think you are going to win.”
“What?” Coming from literally anyone else in the entire world, the words would fill me with hope and warmth, but as they slip from Malcolm’s mouth, they ring like an air raid siren in my head.
“Well.” He huffs in a laugh. “Maybe notfirstplace, but there’s a formula to competitions like these. I’ve researched the paths of previous winners and watched Spencer over the past fewmonths. He’s doing everything right. And with the market being in serious need ofwomen’s companies,” he drawls in a mocking tone, “Odericco came under fire last year for not having enough female entrants; they would be stupid not to choose Wyst for the top three finalists for the good press alone.”
A swirl of emotions run through me like a truck. Nausea brought forth by shock, happiness, and intense sadness. I swallow them all back like a triple shot. “So what’s it to you whether I win or lose? Are you waiting until I win to make your story as big a spectacle as possible?”
His lips thin. “As nice as a viral story would be, that’s not why I’m here. Sure, if I’m wrong and you don’t make the final three, I’ll just press Publish and ruin your company and your reputation like you deserve.” His fingers tighten, crushing the muscles in my palm and making my torso crease into him. He leans in to whisper like a secret love confession, “But if you do place in the top three tonight... you’re going to give me half of Wyst.”
I can’t help the gasp that releases from my lungs; his demand would be laughable if I didn’t know he was being deadly serious.
My head shakes violently. “No, no, I would never do that.” My body goes into shock; my knees start to buckle but his grip holds me up. Tears begin to escape and run down my cheeks as he pulls me back into him. Through my blurred vision, I glance around for Spencer, Oliver, anyone who could help me.
He smiles and shrugs nonchalantly, completely unfazed by my response. “Or I suppose you could choose not to, and I’ll publish the article on Monday.”
My voice shakes uncontrollably. “If anyone finds out, I could go tojail, Malcolm.” It quickly dawns on me that’s what I said Iwanted for him in the meeting with Graystone. I said I wanted him to be charged for sending the photos to everyone and for taking them without my consent, but Graystone convinced me not to.
“You deserve worse.” Before I can protest, he flicks my foot with his and dips me; the crowd moves out of the way, oohing and aahing as they watch the graceful couple showing off their dancing skills. My back muscles lance as he holds me down in the position, his chapped lips brushing against mine as he whispers, “You deserve to rot in the ground for what you did to me, you fucking bitch.” He smiles as his breath enters my mouth. He pulls me back up, my eyes so glassy I can hardly make out the hordes of people clapping around us, enjoying the show.
My brain goes blank. This is enough. I’m done. As he pulls me back up, I slam my stiletto heel into his foot so hard I feel the stone floor reverberate through my knee. I wince, pulling myself from Malcolm’s grip as he coils over in pain. I beeline for the side stairs, glancing at where Oliver was standing in the gods. My head spins around the room as I pull my dress up to my ankles and push through the crowd.
What the hell was I thinking coming here? Having my main character moment. Of course Malcolm would be here. I’m an idiot for thinking he wouldn’t show his face. This was all a huge mistake; if I’d never sent that fucking email, none of this would have happened. I should have let it all die, let Wyst teeter off and splutter out in quiet dignity. Instead, I’ve risked Spencer, Cecily, and Pacha too. To try and save their jobs, I’ve risked sending them to jail. My breath shortens as I run past the VIP sign and straight up the stairs.
If we place in the top three tonight, Malcolm will blackmail us. If we lose, he will blow everything up. Cutting every opportunity we’ll have from the competition for outside funding. After all this work, we’ll be dead anyway.
