I nod back.
We step out onto a raised stage in an event space, Ambrose leading me to where he wants me to stand, blocking my view from the clicking cameras and shouted inquiries from the crowd of reporters.
"Just here," he says, placing me like I'm a prop on the stage a little behind and to the right of the dais where he will make a formal announcement. I lift my chin and fumble with my fingers, not sure what to do with my hands. I settle for clasping them in front of myself.
"There," he says, but before he goes to the dais, his gaze snags on something on my neck, and he frowns.
I think he's found a bruise or a hickey or something equally horrific and look down, my stomach flipping.
His deft fingers lift the delicate chain of my necklace, adjusting it so the clasp rests at the back of my neck and the charm rests atop the dress rather than being hidden beneath the high neckline.
"Perfect," he mutters, and then tips my chin back up with a knuckle. "Don't forget to smile."
The second he moves out of the way, my eyes are blinded by the flash of cameras, and I realize I'm definitely not smiling way too late. I try to save the moment, blinking against the assault oflights as I force a grin that I'm almost certain is going to come across as a grimace, but there's nothing I can do about it.
The flashes slow, becoming more intermittent as soon as Ambrose begins to speak.
I can't see shit through all the bright spots crowding my vision like starbursts and Ambrose barely gets a greeting out before the reporters start to lobby their questions.
The feedback from his mic needles into my ears, and I wince, trying to maintain my smile through the conference. Between the thudding in my temples and the ringing in my ears, I can barely hear their questions or Ambrose's answers, and I'm so fucking glad this is televised so the guys can get whatever information they need from this without me having to remember a damn thing.
When I remember they're watching, it's easier to mentally slap myself into behaving naturally.
I don't need them worrying, and the more at ease I look, the more at ease they'll be with my being here.
By the time Linette comes to escort me from the stage, my knees are stiff, and my fingers are numb from clasping them together for so long. Reporters shout after me for comment, but I hear Ambrose politely, though firmly, request that they respect my privacy during this time.
As if I'm some celebrity grieving the death of a loved one instead of an implanted spy who lost any sense of privacy for the foreseeable future.
Atticus already had me remove the SIM and smash the burner phone as soon as I got home. I gave it to Céline to get rid of in some public trash bin somewhere since no one's watching her. It's too risky to have it. From here on, I have only a set of carefully memorized instructions on how I should get hold of the guys in an emergency.
If it's not life or death, I can only use the messaging system on Rover for Céline to pass along a message or talk with Alfie, the 'expat' I teach English to twice a week, who is actually Elijah.
Other than that, I have my objectives, several leads on where to start, and I'm forbidden from ever going back to the laundromat. Too many eyes would follow me.
"You did great," Linette tells me as Ambrose catches up with us from the conference room. He rushes ahead of Linette to get to the door to a more intimate boardroom, which is thankfully empty.
With the shades pulled, it's dim and quiet. It should be a relief after the chaos of the press announcements, but when Linette closes the door, sealing me in with her and Ambrose, it's anything but.
"Please, sit." Ambrose pulls out the nearest high-backed black chair for me, and I fold myself into it as Linette takes the seat opposite me at the table, and Ambrose the one directly to my right.
Linette taps something on her tablet and folds out some kind of stand for it, intently focused on whatever she's doing on the screen as Ambrose draws my attention back to him by swiveling our chairs to face one another.
"Now, I'm going to ask something," he begins, and my blood chills. "And you can say no, and that's fine. But I want you to consider it."
He watches my throat bob.
"I'd like you to reconsider my offer. Come to my estate in Spain. Just for the week. Until my team can get things under control and the press dies down. I know you have classes and a life here and with any luck, you can return to it very soon if that's still what you want, but?—"
"Okay," I say, interrupting him. This is what we wanted. Exactly what we thought he would offer. And it's what I wouldhave offered him if this didn't happen. The whole plan was for me to contact him and accept his original offer to see the home where I was born.
This just speeds up the timeline.
He reels back, surprise morphing to genuine excitement on his face. "Okay? You'll come?"
"You didn't see my apartment," I mutter with a hollow laugh. "It was swarming with reporters. I can't…I can't go back to that."
Ambrose leans over his knees, and something in his eyes sparks even though his expression is pinched. "I can't express how sorry I am for all this."
