“Dad, stop.” I’m surprised by the firmness in my voice. “I’m not blaming Jess for anything. This was mutual…” I stop myself before I say “stupidity.” It doesn’t feel exactly stupid.
A long pause.
“Lucas James Carmichael, the future of this family’s legacy is at stake. Your sister’s husband is up for re-election. I’m announcing my gubernatorial run in less than six months. And you’re in the tabloids with some sports reporter?—”
“Journalist,” I correct automatically, my jaw already clenching.
“Whatever she is, she is not Madeline Bishop. Who, by the way, is devastated. Her father called me this morning. You will fix this. You will tell Madeline you are interested in her. You will do your duty to this family for once in your life.”
The call disconnects, and as I stand there in the hallway, the silence is louder than anything he said.
My phone stays in my hand, but my fingers curlinto a fist around it. My jaw is tight, and my shoulders are tense. There’s a throb in my temple and a burning at the base of my throat that I can’t swallow away.
I’m almost thirty years old. I run communications for one of the most powerful studios in Hollywood. But after five minutes on the phone with him, I’m twelve again, with my back straight and my tie perfect, nodding through his monologue about legacy and image like it was gospel.
He didn’t ask what I want. He never has. He doesn’t care that I’ve built a career that I’m proud of and that I’m good at it. He doesn’t care that I’ve done it on my own. All that matters to him is how I’m perceived, if I’m aligned, or if I can offer anything useful politically.
And now he wants me to call up Madeline, string her along for optics, and pretend she’s what I want? That’s not who I am. I might be his son, but I’m not him.
I have no interest in turning my personal life into a negotiation, no interest in pretending to care about someone for the sake of “family strategy.” I’ve played the game long enough to know exactly what it costs, and I’m done footing the bill.
I take a deep breath, scrub a hand over my face, and steel myself before walking back in. Grant’s watching me, his expression unreadable.
“I take it your father isn’t happy?” he asks with one brow raised.
“No.” I exhale slowly. “I’ve ruined his plans for a political merger between our family and one of his donors.”
Grant nods slowly and then gestures to his laptop. “You know, Dylan Reeves has a first-lookdeal with us.”
The abrupt subject change throws me. “I thought so.”
“This show he’s been developing about industry power dynamics, we’re likely to bid on it when he’s ready.”
“Grant, listen?—”
“The footage he posted of you and Jessica has already gone viral. The chemistry reads well on camera. Very authentic.”
“It’s not?—”
“Let me guess,” Grant continues, standing to pace. “Your father wants you to annul your marriage and blame your new wife, a respected journalist with significant industry connections, I might add, so you can marry the daughter of his donor.” He stops to fix me with a pointed look. “How do you think that plays in the press?”
My stomach sinks. “Not well.”
“Not well,” he echoes. “And it puts this studio in the position of having our head of communications appear manipulative, dishonest, and, frankly, a bit of an ass.”
He’s right. As much as I hate to admit it, spinning this to blame Jess would be inexcusable, both personally and professionally.
“Dylan’s documentary could be interesting,” Grant says, returning to his seat, “and staying married, even temporarily, would certainly silence your father’s pressure about Madeline.”
I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“Six months. Maybe a year at most. You present a united front, do the documentary, then have an amicable separation when the spotlight fades.” He shrugs. “It’s not uncommon in this town.”
“You want me to stay married. To Jess Lexington. The woman who once published a three-thousand-word exposé on studios manipulating box office numbers.”
“The very one.” Grant smiles. “It was excellent reporting, by the way. Got us all to clean up our practices.”
“She’ll never agree to this.”
