Probably.
More likely than not.
“Mira?” Beth nudges, snapping me from my thoughts. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“I’m…” not okay. I was not anticipating needing to sort through whatever this event has caused inside me in public.
In public.
I think, maybe, that’s the part that has me the most disturbed.
I am, presently, being perceived by who knows how many strangers, and their conclusions are all incorrect.
“Lynn, get the girl some water,” Leeann says, settling into the armchair on my other side. “That man is treating you well, isn’t he?”
My mind trips through the past few days, and months, and years. “I think so. He’s paying me well.”
“Hm.” Leeann’s lips purse.
Lynn’s hand and a crisp glass of water appear in front of me, kind eyes peering when I look up. Her round cheeks lift in a smile after a moment, then she addresses the room, “Ladies, I think we should talk about our books.” After I take the water glass, she settles into her spot at the head of the space and faces Beth. “What have you been reading this past month?”
Books. Yes. Talking about books at book club is what I anticipated when I left my still very new home this evening.
Palpable relief swarms, and I sip my water while fragile wisps of normalcy settle my racing heart.
Everything’s fine.
I hope.
Surely Mr. Anders can set everything straight. Surely he can have his assistant email someone and say that we’re not together. Surely he can take care of this, and I’ll fade back into the oblivion I’m comfortable with.
Everything is fine.
Or, well, it will be.
Chapter 9
?
I…cannot email the internet, unfortunately.
Damion
“And so…” Mirabelle toys violently with her apron straps, looking like a picture of anxious beauty, “…I’d really appreciate it if you told everyone the truth.”
At some point between last night and this morning, she found out about the article that’s been going around for the past two weeks. Thankfully, the guy who took the picture hasn’t disclosed my location or made his next move, but I’m afraid an escalation is imminent.
I couldn’t care less what the media gets off on, but I care very much that Mirabelle does not appear to be taking this in stride. She’s visibly unnerved.
And now she’s asking me to fix it—as though I can.
Lacing my fingers atop my desk, I furrow my brow. “What would you like me to do?”
Because if it’s in my power, I will do it, Mirabelle. I would do anything for yo—
“Well, I was thinking probably email them.”
I blink. “Email…them?”
