“You don’t understand! Truth and loyalty are important to him! They’re so important to him . . . I can’t.” I cover my head in my hands as I start to hyperventilate. “I’m going to throw up.”
“Rachel.” They try comforting me, both of them slinging their arms around my shoulders, but I’m beyond comfort.
My cell phone is buzzing madly. I suck in deep breaths, and when my phone falls still, the landline starts to ring. Gina lifts the kitchen phone in the air. “It’s Helen, Rachel.”
When nothing happens, she waves the phone at me.
“Helen’s calling.”
“Don’t talk to her,” Wynn whispers.
Gina covers the speaker. “Hello? Wynn? She’s her BOSS.”
I know what she wants, what she will say. I grab the phone while my hand trembles and the rest of me starts to grow numb inside. I have disappointed everyone in my life. “You saw?” she asks.
I can’t answer.
Helen growls, “We’ll ride this if it kills us. Get to work.”
I’ve barely hung up the phone when Gina raises my cell phone before me, eyes wide and apologetic. “It’s your mother.”
With a moan of distress, I shoot Gina a “help me” look. What will I say to her? Well, let’s see. That I lost my heart and my senses with it. That I lost the man I loved before I had the courage to let myself truly have him. That I lost a story to my colleague. That I might, if I can’t find my balls soon, lose my job.
That I’ve lost all sense of direction. Of what’s right and what’s wrong. Of who I am and what I want—
“Heyyyy, adoptive mom!” Gina finally picks up on my behalf. “Yes! GINA! Oh . . . Rachel? She’s super busy writing the article that will leave this other one in the dust. Oh, pfft! It’s just a blog article! Rachel’s will be IN PRINT, and it’s much more important in that format. . . .” She starts to wax poetic to my mom while I go back to the computer and go to Saint’s social media.
I scan a few pictures.
There he is.
I see a picture of him getting out of his Rolls and into M4. A picture of him flipping off a reporter.
A set of slick aviators shield his eyes.
He looks sharp and on top of the world as he gets out of the car and, just like that, flips off the reporter. And a caption beneath the image reads: “When asked by a reporter, outside his offices, what he thought about his girlfriend being undercover press, this is what Malcolm Saint had to say.”
Saint is back in Chicago. He’s back from his business trip. To find this.
He’s being tagged. He’s being BOMBARDED.
@malcolmsaint U deserve much mre and better than a cunt lke her!!
“I’m going to go talk to him.”
I run into my room and change as fast as possible into a pair of black slacks and a professional-looking white button-down blouse; then I quickly gather my hair into a ponytail and, despite Wynn and Gina’s reservations, take a cab to M4.
I cross the pristine lobby. If I’d thought it was difficult to walk up to the receptionists behind the oval desk the first time, it’s even more excruciatingly painful now.
I know that they know what’s going on; I can tell by their pointy stares.
My pulse is dangerously high. I can’t imagine what it will feel like when I see him.
“Rachel Livingston for Mr. Saint, please.”
It strikes me, after several heartbeats, that none of them wants to answer me.
“We apologize,” the middle one with the tidy bun finally says. “But Mr. Saint just got into town.”
“Yes, I know.” I can’t believe how calm I sound, considering how twisted up my insides are. “I’ll wait.”
“Miss!” she calls as I walk toward the elevators. “No one is to be allowed to the top without authorization today.”
I stop mid-stride, puzzled. “Oh.” I hesitate, and notice that the elevator bank is, in fact, quite empty today. “I’ll wait here, then.” I try to stay calm as I walk back in their direction. Did Saint cancel all the meetings in his “packed” day? I feel increasingly anxious about it. “Just please tell him Rachel Livingston would love to see him. It’s terribly important.”
“Like I said, he’s terribly busy.”
“I’ll wait,” I say, soft but firm.
I head to one of one of the lounges by the window. Huddled in my seat, I wait, feeling cold, remembering the absolute gossip storm taking place online. I shift uneasily from side to side, watching the elevators and the cars outside.
There are two or three people outside the building trying to keep their cameras hidden but occasionally taking snapshots of the building. So they want a piece of him too? Annoyance flares inside me. Annoyance, impotence, and loathing at myself for having caused this. The receptionist approaches moments later, and there’s an intimidating bodyguard with her.
Slowly, I rise to my feet.