"I appreciate the offer," I say carefully. "And I'll have an answer for you by end of business." I pause. "But I want to flag something practical before anyone gets too far ahead of this."
"Go on."
I glance toward the head of the table, where Bennet is still looking at me like I'm something that happened to him against his will.
"Mr. Sullivan and I don't exactly have natural chemistry at the moment," I say. "Selling a relationship to the press requires a degree of convincing that two people who can barely be in the same room together are going to struggle to produce. That's not a criticism; it's a logistics problem. And it's one worth considering before we commit to a strategy that lives or dies on whether anyone believes us."
Frank looks at Bennet.
Bennet glares at me.
The silence stretches long enough to become its own kind of answer.
"That is a problem with a solution." Rosalie looks at the man at the head of the table. "Bennet."
He says nothing.
"Bennet."
"I heard you, Rose."
Everyone silently waits.
"End of business," Bennet slides on his suit jacket and gives a slight bow in my direction. "Let me know what you decide, Mrs. Monroe."
He walks out.
This time nobody goes after him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BENNET
“He’s asked not to be disturbed, Ms. Bennett.”
I'm still at the window in my office when I hear Rosalie approach my assistant, still watching the city do whatever the city does on a weekday morning while people with simpler lives go about theirs unbothered.
“Claudia, I don’t care if he has the President of the United States in his office.” Rosalie's voice carries the resolve of a woman who has never once in her life been deterred by a the word no.
I hear her angry heels clacking towards my office, the pause when she enters the room and clocks the glass of whiskey in my hand.
"Now can you clue me in on what that was about," Rosalie says, "and why you're two fingers in at ten o'clock on a Wednesday morning."
I knew she'd come looking for answers, hence the whiskey.
I don't answer immediately. I watch a delivery truck below navigate a turn it has no business attempting and think about how that's a pretty accurate metaphor for my morning.
"Michael."
"Give me a minute, Rose."
She gives me approximately five seconds, which for Rosalie is generous. I hear her settle into the chair across from my desk.
I turn from the window and take my seat. Pull the tie from my collar because it feels like it's actively trying to strangle me, fish a hair tie from the desk drawer, and drag my hair back.
"I know you weren't thrilled about the PR angle to begin with," she says, "but you were on board with the fake girlfriend concept in theory. What's different about doing it with her?"
"It's Blaire," I say.
