I’m frozen in place behind my desk, hand covering my mouth, as Christian seems to be looking into my eyes and speaking directly to me through the screen.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice steady, without an ounce of shame. “My name is Elijah Pierce. Ten years ago, my brother, Christian Pierce, died of a drug overdose at a party being held to celebrate our eighteenth birthday. At that time, distraught and traumatized, I assumed his identity. I have been using his name and living as Christian Pierce since that time.”
Holy shit.
The press surrounding him—I can’t see how many people there are because obviously ABC isn’t going to put competitors on camera—pounces the instant Christian stops speaking to take a breath. He tries unsuccessfully to quiet them, and finally his lawyer steps up to the podium, waving them down.
“One question at a time, please,” he calls, once, twice, three times, and finally there’s a semblance of silence.
A woman’s arm, covered by the sleeve of a coral jacket, juts into the frame, holding out a microphone. “Mr. Pierce, why are you revealing this information on broadcast news? Has your family been informed?”
Again, Christian looks right into the camera.
“I wanted the world to know the truth,” he says, and my heart bursts.
“Why did you do it?” pipes up a male voice from somewhere off-camera.
“It was my impression that my father had a closer connection with my brother,” Christian says, not hesitating for a single moment. “In my devastation, I made a snap decision to spare my father the pain of losing his favorite son.”
In another instant, I’m up out of my seat, grabbing for my purse. This time it does tip, spilling half of what’s inside into my desk drawer. The only thing I stop to grab is my wallet, and I shove my phone inside on my way out the door.
For once, I don’t care if people see me rushing.
“I’m going out,” I shout to Adam on my way past his desk, and he does a double take when he sees me moving at such a high speed on three-inch heels. “If Walker asks, you can tell him it was a client emergency.”
That’s what this is, after all. My one and only client has taken it upon himself to schedule and follow through on a press conference during which he has announced information fit to destroy his reputation completely. There’s a good chance I might get fired for this—I’ve seen people let go from HRM for less. All I can do now is rush to the scene of the disaster and try to spin it.
Of course, even as I sprint for the elevator, I know that’s not why I’m fleeing the building.
I’m running to Christian’s side because he did this—all of this—for me.
He didn’t have to tell the world his secret. He didn’t have to hold a press conference and announce it to countless people who happen to be watching the news. He didn’t have to ensure that the story will be picked up by every gossip blog and every news outlet from here to Los Angeles. This is going to be big news, and he refused to use the services of the person hired to manage his reputation.
He didn’t let anything soften the blow.
For all I know, the punches are still coming.
I have to get to him.
I run through the building’s lobby and slam my hands against the door, almost losing my balance as I throw myself out onto the sidewalk.
Cab. I need a cab.
I look left, then look right as the heat descends like a heavy blanket over the back of my neck.
Every cab for as far as I can see is occupied, and not a single one of them is pulling up to the curb to let someone out.
Pierce Industries is four blocks away.
I’ve never been there because we’ve always scheduled the PR meetings at HRM, but I’ll be damned if I don’t know the fastest way to get to my client at all times.
I give myself five more seconds to hail a cab, and when none appear, I take off running down the sidewalk, thanking my lucky stars that I’ve always been a natural in heels.
I’m instantly sweltering in the morning sun, and after a block I’m hugging the inside of the street, praying for awnings, but I don’t slow down. I move, move, move until I’m forced to stop by a do not walk sign—God help you if you cross against the light in New York City, and even if you’re walking with it, things can happen—taking off again as soon as the white hand blinks on.
The second block goes by in a blur of restaurants and people, some of whom actually step out of the way of the crazed woman running down the sidewalk at top speed in high heels, clutching her purse like she’s pursuing a thief.
Two blocks left, and the heat is getting to me.
I have to get there.
I have to tell him, right now, that I saw what he did, and that it means everything to me. I have to tell him that I know he’s telling the truth—that I know he’s fully aware that looking into the camera will bring people swooping in to investigate his every claim, and if they are not truthful, he will be eviscerated in the press and quite possibly arrested and sent to prison for identity theft.