“Hey! Cecily Montgomery!”
I spin around, caught off guard, just as a flash goes off.
“Told you it was her, man!”
"Any comment? Did you know what your husband was doing?"
For a moment, I can’t process the words. More questions follow, overlapping, but I don’t register any of them. My heart is pounding so fast it feels like the world is tilting, my body frozen, my mind blank, unable to understand what’s happening or how to stop it.
“Cecily!” The voice comes with a gentle touch on my arm. When I look up… I see him.
Alexander.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. The flashes keep going off, blinding and relentless.
He turns to the two men standing behind him—men I hadn’t even noticed before—and says, his tone firm, commanding, “Take care of this.”
The two of them immediately move toward the photographers, pulling the cameras from their hands. That’s all I see before Alexander looks back at me. His expression softens, his voice soft, almost soothing.
“Come with me?”
I nod.
We walk for a short while before stepping into the lobby of a building. He opens the elevator with a key card, and we ride up in silence. His hand rests lightly at the small of my back the whole time. I don’t know if it’s to steady me or to guide me.
When the elevator doors open, we step directly into what looks like the living room of a penthouse. Alexander guides me to a couch and, in a low voice, tells me he’ll get me some water.
When he returns, he hands me the glass, and I drink it all in one go.
“Would you like some more?” he asks, his voice holding that same soft tone, his amber eyes fixed on me, careful, almost searching.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I look away, unable to hold his gaze, and glance around instead. “Your apartment is beautiful.”
Alexander chuckles softly. “No need for politeness. I doubt you even noticed what color the couch is.”
He’s right. I glance down and see the fabric, white. “How did you know?” I ask, embarrassed.
He smiles, that gentle, warm smile of his. “I just do,” he says, meeting my eyes again. “After the way you were approached, I imagine the last thing on your mind was interior design.”
“I don’t even know what happened,” I admit. “Why were they taking pictures and shouting questions I couldn’t even understand? I’m not a celebrity or anything.”
“I think you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he says, his tone calm, threaded with concern. “There’s a pop singer living in the building, so paparazzi are always hanging around. They must’ve recognized you, from the article, or maybe your column.”
He pauses, then adds more gently, “You haven’t seen what was published earlier, have you?”
My brows knit tighter. “Seen what?”
Alexander stands, removes his jacket, and drapes it over the arm of the couch. He starts rolling up his sleeves, methodically, almost like it’s something he does to ground himself.
When he sits back down, he unlocks his phone, hesitates for a moment, then meets my eyes. “I hate that it has to be me showing you this,” he says, gentler now. “But it’s better you know, so you can protect yourself.”
He hands me the phone, and I notice a faint tremor in his fingers, as if, despite his calm, this is the last thing he wants to do.
I take it from him. And the moment I see the screen, the ground disappears beneath me.
My vision blurs.
From Boardrooms to Bedrooms:
