I didn’t answer. Because it wasn’t about better. It was about control—thin, fragile control, but it was all I had left.
She sighed, dropping her bag on the counter and heading for the coffeemaker. “Then we go into crisis mode.”
The word made something in my chest twist. Crisis. As if that was what we were now.
I nodded anyway. “Okay. We’ll start with a statement draft. We’ll get ahead of it.”
“Ellery…” she started gently, turning to look at me. “You shouldn’t have to manage this alone.”
I smiled, sharp and automatic. “You know me. I’m not great at letting people handle my mess.”
Naomi filled the silence with the soft grind of beans and the drip of water. “Cam called this morning,” she said finally. “He said PR’s handling the team side. But your name’s already trending.”
The words hit like static—familiar, numbing. “Of course it is.”
“Do you want me to call the board? Or?—”
“No.” I cut her off too quickly. “I’ll handle it.”
She studied me, eyes narrowing, but didn’t argue. That was the thing about Naomi—she knew when to push and when to let me build my walls back up.
When the coffee machine beeped, she poured two mugs, sliding one across the desk. I wrapped my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my cold fingers.
“I just want to make sure he’s okay,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Naomi didn’t answer right away. She reached out, brushed her thumb across a smudge on my sleeve—Beckett’s shirt, still faintly smelling like him. “He will be,” she said. “He’s not the kind of man who stays down.”
I wanted to believe her. God, I did.
But as the headlines replayed in my mind, I realized I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the scandal—or about what we’d lost overnight.
The phone started ringing before the clock even hit nine.
At first, I thought it was one or two calls—people checking in, wanting clarification, maybe even offering support. But it didn’t stop. The line lit up again and again, a relentless pulse of sound that filled every inch of the office.
Sponsors. Board members. Reporters. Strangers who suddenly remembered my number.
Each one had a tone that told me what they wanted before they even spoke—sympathy wrapped in curiosity, outrage disguised as concern.
I straightened my shoulders, took a slow breath, and answered the first call. Then the next. Then the next.
“The foundation remains focused on our programs,” I said, my voice steady, professional, measured. “No further comment at this time.”
The first few times, my hands shook a little as I hung up. By the fifth call, the words came out smooth, practiced—like armor I could slip into without thought.
Naomi hovered at the neighboring desk, typing furiously, juggling her own flood of emails. Every few seconds, she muttered something under her breath—usually “sharks” or “vultures” or something far less polite.
Her frustration grounded me. It was easier to handle anger than pity.
One of the reporters was persistent, his voice oily through the receiver. “Ms. James, are you confirming that you and Mr. Mason are in a relationship? Were you involved during his suspension?”
I closed my eyes, forcing calm into every syllable. “The foundation remains focused on our programs,” I repeated.
He pressed again, trying to get a rise out of me. I didn’t give him one.
When I finally hung up, Naomi hissed, “I swear, if I could reach through the phone?—”
“I know,” I said softly. “Don’t. It’s what they want.”
