NSFW—seriously. Don’t open this unless you’re alone.
Sure that someone, somewhere, got ahold of a video of Dean and I—because, let’s face it, we weren’t exactly careful—and that I’m about to be blackmailed, I click on the attachment and hold my breath.
It’s not a murky, poorly lit video of Deanand me in the cabana or even an audio clip of us in the private dining room at Davino’s.
It’s a very well lit, almost professional quality video of a naked, Allister violating what looks like a blow-up doll in a random, non-script hotel room.
Feeling a dizzying combination of revulsion and amusement, I close the clip and read the body of the message.
No need to involve the IRS. He’s never going to bother you again.
Reading and re-reading the message, I hit reply.
PLEASE JUST TELL ME WHO YOU ARE.
Like every time before, the email bounces back into my in-box as undeliverable.
“Ms. Blackwell,” Alice’s voice follows a polite knock on my office door, punching a hole in my concentration.
“Yes?” I say, tearing my gaze from the laptop screen in front of me.
“You have a call on line one,” she says. “I tried buzzing you but?—”
“But I’ve muted my phone.” Giving her a flat, apologetic smile, I close my laptop and set it aside. Since I returned home, my phone has been ringing nearly non-stop. Mostly reporters, looking for a quote. Some sort of gossip or scandal to feed the rumor mill. The more unscrupulous of the bunch have taken to calling my office, posing as clients or even family members. We’ve had to set up a password. just to screen my calls. “Do you know who it is?” Even as I ask it, I tell myself to get a grip.
It’s not him. It’s not Dean. It’s been months now and he hasn’t reached out and why would he? He gave it his best shot and it didn’t work. You didn’t buy into his lies so whatever he was hoping to gain from telling them will never be realized. Menlike Dean don’t linger. Once the well’s run dry, they move on. Take the hint and do the same.
“Curtis Horne,” she answers me with a flat, apologetic smile of her own. “He had the password… do you want me to tell him that you’re in a meeting?”
“No.” It comes out so clipped and brittle, the pitch of it makes me wince. “No…” Shaking my head, I try again but the second time isn’t much better. “I’ll take the call. Thank you.”
“Of course.” Giving me a quick head bob, she turns away, only to turn back again. “Oh—your father also called. He’d like to see you in his office.”
“Okay.” Lifting the receiver, I fight off the wave of irritation that threatens to overtake me. Lately, whenever he calls me into his office, it’s to discuss what happened—mainly to plead Paige’s case.
We need to reserve judgment, Melisandre. We’ll know soon enough if those texts are real, who sent them, and what theirmotivations were.
I know what he thinks.
He thinks it was Dean.
Dean who fabricated them.
Dean who sent them.
Dean who took advantage of me in my vulnerable state and manipulated me.
I don’t argue with him because he’s right.
We’ll know soon enough.
Pressing the blinking red light on my desk phone, I bring the receiver to my ear. “This is Millie.”
“Hey, Millie,” a deep, male voice says. “It’s Curt. I hope you don’t mind me calling—Gwen gave me your password. Kinda crazy that you need one of those but I guess after everything that’s happened…” He stops rambling for a moment before clearing his throat. “Anyway, I’ll just cut to the chase because I know you’re busy—I need a date.”
For a second, I don’t know what to say.
“A date?” Looking up from my desk blotter and around my empty office like I’m looking for someone to explain it to me, I shake my head. “I don’t understand.” Curtis Horne is one of the most sought after bachelors in Manhattan, has been for years now. There’s no way in hell heneeds a date.“Did my sister put you up to this?”
