I wave down the waiter to grab the check as Erica finishes the last of her pasta dish and Christopher reaches for his phone. He pauses halfway through whatever he’s reading and looks up at me.
“I thought you didn’t want anyone to know about the money you gave that Brewed worker in Oklahoma.”
Christopher passes his phone across the table as a knot forms in my stomach.
Alexander Morgan donates $100,000 to Brewed employee who loses parents and home in Oklahoma City tornado.
I scroll through the article and feel my face getting redder and redder.
I specifically told Paul not to tell anyone, not even Connie, when I got him to contact my accountant to wire the money. I didn’t want anyone thinking I was trying to generate publicity off of someone else’s suffering.
At the bottom of the article, it shows Brewed has matched my donation and that they’ve set up a donation link.
When I click through, there’s over 1.2 million dollars already raised. I feel a mixture of gratitude at those who have donated and fury at Paul for not keeping his word and keeping this private.
“How. fucking. dare. he.”
My rage boils over as I fling the phone back at Christopher, startling the waiter, who quickly drops the check and leaves us alone.
The sheer audacity of the man. Telling me what I can and can’t do, and then doing exactly what I expressly forbade him from doing.
I grab my phone from my sweatpants, scroll down through my contacts, and press the call button when I find the contact info for John, my lawyer.
“Is John Shapiro there?” I ask, when a woman answers on the second ring. “It’s Alexander Morgan.”
Christopher and Erica exchange a concerned look while I tap my fingers on the white tablecloth.
This is the last fucking time he ever gets to do this to me.
“Hi John,” I answer when I’m finally put through. I switch my phone to the other ear, skipping all the pleasantries to jump straight to the point. “What do I need to do for you to terminate my management contract with Paul?”
20.Christopher
Sunday
It feels like I’ve been walking on eggshells around Alexander ever since I showed him the news article. His anger at the story leaking was so seismic it didn’t even register on the Richter scale. I originally thought he was blowing things out of proportion, that he was jumping too quickly to conclusions and that it might not be Paul, but Alexander said only his accountant and Paul knew about the donation. His accountant had sworn he wouldn’t tell anyone and had made sure the donation couldn’t be traced back to Alexander, which only left Paul.
Things still didn’t fully add up for me, like there was a piece of the jigsaw missing. After doing a little investigating myself and speaking directly to Caryn, she confirmed that she was the one who had gone to the press with the story. She’d felt Alexander could do with some good news after all the drama of the last few months.
I wanted to be angry at her, but I could see that her intentions were pure. She’d wanted to help Alexander, not hinder him. To try and further rehabilitate his image. I thanked her for caring, even if she didn’t realize the dilemma it left me in. And that’swhen she delivered the news I had suspected of being true all along.
Paul was the one who had instigated the whole thing. He had told her about Alexander’s secret donation and encouraged Caryn to run with the story, saying it could be mutually beneficial for both Alexander and Brewed. She’d been played by Paul, and in that moment, I understood Alexander’s fury.
Twice, I’ve been a firsthand witness as Paul used other people to do his dirty work. The first time, I was collateral damage when Connie made me sign the NDA after the footage of Alexander and I kissing leaked. The second time, I was a puppet in his plan to get Alexander into treatment. Paul wants to keep his hands clean, yet his fingerprints are always there somewhere along the line.
I understood that Alexander didn’t want to move forward with the rest of the activation events—one in Las Vegas yesterday and two in San Diego and Los Angeles today—but I also couldn’t let Alexander’s actions impact my job for a third time. I wanted Paul to pay just as much as Alexander did, but not at the expense of everyone else becoming collateral damage.
After a lot of pleading, I convinced him that by canceling, he’d be feeding the same narrative that’s plagued him ever since I met him. That he needed to take the high road and bide his time. So we both plastered on smiles, and Alexander turned on the charm at the activation event yesterday at the Brewed store. Hungover hotel guests and passersby were stunned to see Alexander behind the coffee counter at the Bellagio. The bespoke Brewed cups had been made specifically in connection with the hotel, and featured a peel-to-reveal chance to win free money that could be spent in the casino, similar to the McDonald’s monopoly campaign. Word quickly spread about the offer, creating insane queues.
Later at the airport, while we waited for our flight down to San Diego, I overheard Paul thanking Caryn for getting the storyout. That it had created a massive amount of positive publicity for Alexander and added another fifteen thousand preorders to the single overnight. He also said several of his industry contacts had emailed him about the goodwill Alexander had shown, which was a good sign for the Grammy’s next year.
He said the last part a little too loudly, and I suspected he intended for me to hear it, knowing I’d likely feed whatever I heard back to Alexander. Instead of being happy about the news, I felt enraged. But I would not give Paul the satisfaction of getting under my skin. I decided not to ruin another night by telling Alexander and have him consumed by thoughts of Paul. So instead, we enjoyed a peaceful evening before resuming the last of the campaign today after this morning’s run.
However, the chill of the ocean breeze is making me regret agreeing to run along the ocean-front walk. My short-sleeve running top isn’t enough to fight off the chill and I feel it right through to my bones. Poor Rob had no choice but to join us, and he struggles to keep up on a bicycle as Alexander sets off to the bottom of the pier. The dark horizon out on the ocean quickly changes as the sun rises behind us.
At the end, I try to catch my breath, resting my hands on top of my exposed knees, buying valuable seconds to work out the best way to answer Alexander’s invite to hang out at his place after we drive up to LA and finish up in the Grove tonight.
“I can’t. I promised I’d spend the evening with my housemate Andrew to make up for missing his birthday last weekend,” I say between breaths. I slowly stand back upright to rest my arm on a wooden piling. “Plus, I thought we were going to take things slower this time?”
