“Right,” she says, her voice steadier than I expected. “Well. That’s horribly perceptive.”
“I have my moments.”
She lets out a small, tired huff of laughter. “Thank you. For… not being awful.”
“I’m trying,” I say.
“Me too,” she replies.
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, the distant kitchen noises drifting back into focus. Something inside me aches in a way that has nothing to do with rejection and everything to do with recognition.
Then I put the phone down, go back to the cooker, and stir the shit out of the sauce.
Because right now, this feels like the only outlet for my anger.
I barrel into our shared kitchen still half-dressed, already late, already irritated, and walk straight into Rupert kissing Glen like early morning kisses are a breakfast option.
“Good Lord,” Rupert says mildly, not breaking contact. “Do give a man some warning.”
Glen grins at me, entirely unapologetic, and gestures with his chin towards the counter. “Brought you theTimes.”
I follow the gesture.
The paper is open. Flattened. Waiting.
My stomach drops.
I cross the kitchen in three strides and pick it up.
I read the headline.
Something in my chest goes cold.
By the second paragraph my jaw locks so hard my teeth ache. By the third I’m shaking, actual heat flooding myarms and neck in a way I haven’t felt in years. I have to consciously stop myself from tearing the page in half.
“Oh,” I say, very quietly. “That fucking wanker.”
Rupert finally disengages, wanders over, peers at the article over my shoulder.
“Well,” he says after a moment. “That’s a load of horse manure.”
“They followed her,” I snap. “They fucking followed her. And they’ve turned her into some sort of moral lesson with a lipstick problem.”
Glen winces. “That’s bollocks.”
“I’mMr Philipsin the article, but she’s just Chloe. As if I’m someone important and she isn’t worth the title.” I go on, rage building now that it’s got somewhere to go. “They imply she can’t tell the difference between reporting and romance writing. They frame her like she tripped and fell into my bed because she can’t help herself.”
Rupert’s expression hardens in a way that means business. “Ah. Yes. Classic.”
I slam the paper down on the counter. “And I get to be the charming idiot who benefited without meaning to. The harmless man. The lucky chef.”
“Of course you do,” Rupert says coolly. “Penis privilege is terribly resilient.”
I rake a hand through my hair, pacing now. “They’re going to ruin her. Professionally. Reputationally. They’ve already got her editor panicking.”
Rupert folds his arms. “Right. Then we’re not panicking. Panicking is for amateurs.”
