I started my day with back-to-back Pilates classes. I told myself I couldn’t cancel. I have responsibilities to my clients, and I can’t let something as trivial as a story in the news prevent me from teaching my classes.
Not to mention, I don’t have the money to refund them.
So, I went. Except I was ambushed by a somewhat aggressive paparazzi. His phone ended up having an unfortunate incident with one of my client’s car tires—she may have driven over it.
There was no way for me to flee the scene, so I stayed and taught my classes as planned. But then I couldn’t leave without getting accosted by people wanting to know how I felt about my boyfriend trashing my father, or whether or not he was telling the truth about the monster that is Michael Morrigan.
When Ifinallyescaped, I needed some space to calm down. My whole world went from relatively uninteresting, to nuclear-on-fire-scandalous in the blink of an eye.
I’ve already had to silence my phone. I’m going to have to change my number at some point. I can’t handle this constant fucking droning. Reporters are blowing it up with requests for comments, further stories, and I can’t even step outside my house. It’s a fucking media circus out there.
I remember the night I said those words. I remember his hands on my skin when I said them. I remember trusting him with the kind of truth that doesn’t have a headline.
I rub at my chest. It’s not the fact that I was exposed as much as it’s about the fact I’m a stupid mare for trusting him in the firstplace.
Dad was right about him.
My stomach sinks even deeper.
Even peeking out between the blinds resulted in my picture being taken and uploaded to the net within a matter of moments. Right there at the top of the page with a headline about how the local rugby star is hiding from the consequences of her actions of sleeping with a reporter.
I love this for me.
Trapped in my fucking house, pacing, fielding cautious glances from my sisters because they’re expecting me to have a breakdown any moment. So instead of beating my boyfriend to death with my boot, I fume.
I bet no one’s standing outside his door ready to shove a recording device in his face for a quote. This scandal isn’t about him, is it? No. It was just fucking caused by him.
You can trust me, Rhi. I’d never write about you like that.
Lies. They all fucking lie.
Fuck. Now I’m starting to sound like Dad.
Beneath the anger, if I’m truly honest with myself, I’m absolutely reeling. My hearts being minced like an old phone bill through the shredder. I feel so… fuck, is there even a word for this heavy feeling in my chest?
Devastation? Betrayal?
My chin quivers, and I turn to face my covered window so my sisters can’t see my eyes welling with tears.
It’s not just about the article, though let’s not deny it, it’s definitely a factor. It’s about trust. I trusted him with that information, personal stuff about my life, my career, my fucking family, and he just… what? Casually threw it out there for the world to read?
I wince. I can’t fathom his level of hatred for my father to just come out and trash him like that. What the actual fuck?
It’s not even truly about Dad either. It’s… fuck.
Raking my hands through my hair draws the attention of both my sisters, but neither say anything.
My whole life I’ve been a story for someone else to tell—the press, coaches, my ex, the fans, my fucking father. I thought Robert saw me, truly saw me, for who I am, not for who people think I’m supposed to be. But even he still doesn’t get it. And worse still, he made me even more of a headline, and for all the wrong fucking reasons.
I press my hand to my chest, but the ache remains. I thought I was finding myself, my voice, my independence from under the weight of Dad’s reputation, but the suffocation of my current situation reminds me there’s no escape. No matter where I go, or who I talk to, I’ll always be Rhiannon Morrigan, Michael Morrigan’s daughter.
A bitter laugh bubbles up inside me, getting caught on a sob at the back of my throat. None of this is what I wanted. Dad’s always been easy in front of the camera, chatting to reporters, giving them the story they didn’t know they wanted until he told them as much.
That’s not me, I’m not like him. I can’t get them eating out of the palm of my hand like he can, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that Dad’s always spoken for me, saying the things he wanted to say, wanted to hear, wantedmeto say.
Fuck.
I pick up my phone. If I can’t go see Robert, he’s going to get a piece of my mind, whether he wants to hear it or not. His name is at the top of my messages, a subtle pull tugging me in his direction.
