“Expect fireworks for the rest of the day,” confides her friend. “Some Global VIPs have flown in to give Brad a bollocking.”
“Do you know their names?” My voice carries loudly across the near-empty bus.
Both girls turn to look at me in horror.
“Shit, sorry.” The one clutching the can of coke winces with embarrassment. “We had no idea you were in here.”
I force a smile and they return it in relief.
“Brad Wilson’s a dick. He’s shouted at all of us,” reassures her friend.
I don’t care. I’m so done with that man. “Is Global shutting us down again?” I ask.
The first girl shakes her head. “I think it’s more about restructuring…” She trails off as Brad barges into the catering van under a cloud as dark as his newly revealed insincerity.
“Charlie, get your ass back on set! Ramirez just requested a second lunch and he’s specifically asked you to organize it.”
Chapter Forty-Five
By the time dusk hits the South Bank, I’m dead on my feet. All I want to do is slink back to my apartment, crawl into bed, lick my wounds, and forget all about Brad Wilson and Ryan Ramirez for the next ten hours or so.
As if it could ever be that easy.
Brad corners me as I’m about to leave the set.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he snaps, grabbing my arm and marshaling me toward a waiting SUV.
“Home.” I wrench my arm away. I’ve had enough of him manhandling me today.
“We’re not done. You’re needed at a meeting across town.”
I don’t even bother hiding my irritation. “Do I have to?”
I know it’s going to be some last minute script amendment bore-fest with Ramirez, interspersed with some verbal target practice at my expense.
“Yes. Get in.” He pushes me roughly toward the car and I’m half tempted to remind him of this morning’s diatribe about over-entitled assistants.
Central London is nowhere near as enthralling as it was twenty-four hours ago. The lights are too bright. They’ve completely lost their charm—rather like my respect for Brad Wilson. I have no idea where we’re going, and Brad’s refusing to look at me, let alone impart that minor detail. When the SUV slows to a stop, I’m surprised to see that we’ve parked on the flawless gray forecourt of one of London’s top hotels.
“I thought we were going to a meeting, not out for cocktails?” I quip, even though I’d rather drink poison than sip margaritas in his company.
“Business center,” growls Brad as he exits the car
How did I ever fall for his duplicitous charm? Even his Hollywood smile is fake. He’s no better than my mom and all her gold digger cronies, except his drug of choice seems to be these power plays with his brother.
We enter the lobby and make our way up to the fourth floor. I never knew an elevator ride could be so excruciating. An elegant redhead is waiting to greet us, but she’s clearly working late for no overtime. She keeps checking her watch and doesn’t bother to offer us any refreshments. She ushers us toward a large meeting room that is fronted on all sides by frosted glass panels. “This way, please. He’s been waiting for you, and he’s growing impatient.”
Trust Ramirez to be chucking his weight around. He can’t have been waiting that long. He left the set around the same time we did.
“After you.” Brad stands aside to let me enter first and it catches me off guard. I thought the man was devoid of all manners and decency.
Mumbling my thanks, I slip past him and step inside the room. At first glance it’s like any other business center around the world—neutral cream walls, nonsensical abstract paintings to distract from the tedium of meetings, a carpet in the richest claret to cover up all the blood from corporate backstabbings.
And then my gaze shifts left.
A large oval meeting table dominates the space. There are five men sitting around it, but I only see one. He’s at the head, dressed in a familiar three-piece Tom Ford suit, and there’s a muscle working hard in his left cheek. He stares directly at me with those smoldering dark eyes that I know so well.
“Hello, Charlie,” says Jake grimly.
Chapter Forty-Six
I grind to a halt and Brad crashes into the back of me.
“What the fuck!” he yells, and then he catches sight of Jake. With a smirk, he neatly sidesteps around me like the emotional roadkill that I am. “At least you two won’t need an introduction. Still, I’m betting this evening won’t be nearly as enjoyable as yesterday’s.”
The implications of his words swing like a guillotine above the table. At the same time I’m miserably aware of how crap I look. My black jeans are filthy, my pale pink hoodie is covered in spilt coffee, and I sweated off the last traces of makeup hours ago.
Jake’s eyes keep swiveling from Brad to me. I can tell he’s trying to second-guess the nature of our relationship. No, no, no, I want to scream at him. Don’t even think it for a second.
He’s changed since we last saw each other. He’s grown older and harder, somehow. His cheeks are hollow, and despite his golden tan, there’s no warmth left in his face. There’s nothing left for me.
“Sit down, Charlie,” he says coolly. “I assume you’re here in your capacity as Brad’s new assistant. If so, I’d appreciate you taking the minutes for us.”
Why am I here?
Is Brad taunting me?
Is he taunting us both?
“Of course,” I squeak, pulling out my notebook and collapsing into a seat as far away from Brad Wilson as possible.
“Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” Brad glares at his brother. “Are you going for the explosive Dalton special, or is this going to be a long, drawn out affair? If so, I need a whiskey.”
There’s a short lull as drinks are ordered and terse introductions to Jake’s associates are made.
And then all hell breaks loose.
“You irresponsible fucker! What the hell were you thinking?” roars Jake, slamming his bourbon down on the table with a deafening crash.
Brad just smirks again and says nothing.
“Do you have any idea how much money this shoot is hemorrhaging? The budget’s shot to shit, half your crew want to quit, and your leading lady has just blown her entire costume allowance on a single outfit. Don’t even get me started on Ramirez’s expenses.”
“I don’t answer to you, Dalton. It’s my father’s budget, not yours.”
“Not anymore,” says Jake grimly. “I took back full control of Global Studios exactly two hours ago when your father’s ridiculous lawsuit was thrown out of court.”
“Bullshit!” Brad jumps to his feet in protest. He takes a threatening step toward Jake who rises to meet him, his eyes glinting dangerously.
“Calm down, you stupid idiot.” One of Jake’s associates drags Brad back to his chair.
“Call your father if you like,” say Jake mildly. “He’ll only confirm it.”
“It will never be your studio, Dalton.” Every muscle in Brad’s face is strained with tension.
Jake’s eyes flicker back to me. “It already is. I’m not prepared to let you and Wilson run my father’s legacy and his memory into the ground.”
There’s something deeper at play here. There’s a hidden meaning behind that jibe.
“You dare to sit there and say that to me?” Brad chuckles darkly. “My father has lived and breathed Global Studios for years.”
“Of which I’m very grateful,” says Jake, sounding anything but. “Unfortunately, I’ve come to realize that his judgment is lacking in one key area.”
“And what’s that?”
“You.”
The word is like a thunderbolt. The ensuing silence around the room is agonizing.
“The way I see it, you have two choices.�
� Jake picks up his tumbler and examines the crystal cut pattern. “You can either fall into line, or get the fuck out of my studio.”
He’s so emotionless. He’s every inch the masterful billionaire studio boss today. “So, here’s what we’re going to do.” He puts his drink back down on the table. “I’m firing you from your role, effective immediately.” With that, he shoots a stack of paper across the table in Brad’s direction. “Here’s your termination letter.”
Brad doesn’t move a muscle. The contempt sizzling between the two men is mesmeric.
“I’m willing to keep you on as a freelance producer for the time being, as a conciliatory measure. We need to get this shoot wrapped as soon as possible, and then you’re going back to L.A. I’m setting up a new art house division, whether the board approves it or not. You’re going to work in development there. If you do a good job, I’ll move you back into movie production within two years.”
It’s more than Brad deserves, but he clearly doesn’t see it that way.
“You can stick your offer,” he snarls, rising to his feet again. “Don’t come in here and patronize me with this crap. This is nothing to do with how good or how bad I may be at my job. This is about you and your enduring quest to fuck me over.”
“I’d accept the offer if I were you,” says Jake coldly. “There won’t be another after today; you can be sure of it. I’ll run you straight out of Hollywood, if I have to. Not even your father will be able to bail you out.”
The fight seems to leave Brad then. He sits back down and prods at the termination contract like it’s poison ivy. “So, what do you propose?” he asks dully.
“First off, I’m firing Ramirez—”
“Thank God,” I mutter.
The whole room swivels in my direction. Jake glowers at me and I blush scarlet.
“I’ll be bringing Max in to finish filming, and my assistant to clean up the set,” Jake continues. “We need Rachel’s brisk efficiency now more than ever.”
“Fine,” says Brad through gritted teeth. “Are we done?”
Jake nods once. “We’re done.”
Brad stalks out of the room without so much as a backward glance at me. One by one Jake’s associates file out after him, until there’s no one left but us. I sit there staring at my hands.
I need to get out of here. I can’t breathe. This man has made every part of me scream with pleasure. Now it’s all screaming in pain.
“I’ll email these notes over first thing tomorrow.” I jump to my feet and start gathering my things together. It takes me ages to pick up my pen lid. My fingers seem to have disconnected from my brain.
“Charlie, stop.”
I force myself to look at him. His face is so still. He’s not giving me anything. I watch him rise from his chair and move slowly in my direction, catching traces of his aftershave as he approaches. Tears prick my eyelids. It’s L.A., Ourika, and Marrakech.
Jake.
He stops a few meters away to undo his top button and loosen his tie. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.” It’s a false whisper.
There’s a shout from the street outside. He glances toward the window, gifting me a view of his profile with the high cheekbones and strong jawline. His black hair has been swept back off his face. He looks so composed, so in control. Our breakup hasn’t affected him. If anything, it’s made him stronger.
He thrusts his hands in his pockets and turns back to look at me. There’s the faintest trace of a bruise high up on his left cheek. I blush again when I see it.
“Don’t. I deserved it,” he says sharply. “What you overheard in my hotel suite was unforgivable.”
“I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“Did you fuck him?”
“How can you even think that?” I say with a gasp, his remoteness cutting me to the core.
“You jumped ship to the enemy. What do you expect me to think?”
Jake is so calm it’s unnerving. I want him to lose his temper and shout at me like he used to. Anything other than this chilly indifference. It’s too synonymous with the way he treated Cassie in his office all those months ago.
“I didn’t sleep with Brad Wilson,” I say quietly. “He offered me a job and I took it. I wanted to see you again. I thought he could make it happen. I wish you’d told me he was your brother, about Global, about the lawsuit, everything.”
We stare at one another again, sizing each other up, taking in each other’s pain.
“Why did you want to see me again, Charlie?”
I shrug helplessly. “I guess I wanted to apolog—”
“I’m not thrilled with you working on Brad’s movie, but I’m glad you found your way back into the industry,” he interrupts, brushing off my words like it’s meaningless noise. He leans across the table and reaches for the conference room telephone system. “Your job will be more tolerable with Ramirez out of the picture. I gather he gave you hell today.”
Ramirez was a breeze compared to the last five minutes.
I watch in a daze as Jake dials down to reception. “Have my driver bring the car around.” He replaces the receiver and delivers a grim smile. “Since my brother has so gallantly stranded you, allow me to offer you a lift home.”
“When are you flying b-back to L.A.?” The words stick in my throat.
“Tonight. As soon as I can get away.”
As soon as you can get away from me, you mean.
“Jake—” I take a step toward him and he stills.
“Don’t.”
Don’t.
I close my eyes in agony. We’re right back to where we started.
“You made your feelings perfectly clear in Morocco,” he says. “I didn’t like it, but I respected it. I’ve thought a lot about what you said. You were right. There was too much uncertainty, not enough trust.”
“I know but—”
“I need to concentrate on the business, Charlie. I’ve fought my ass off trying to wrestle it back from Wilson. I couldn’t do it when my father was alive. I’m determined to make up for that now.”
“The enemies you spoke of in Morocco… You were talking about Walt Wilson, weren’t you?”
Jake frowns. “The devil incarnate. All he ever wanted, wants, is Global, and he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to get it. First, he destroyed my father by taking away my mother. Then he tried to destroy me by taking—”
We’re disturbed by a knock on the door. Already? Trust my luck that he has a driver as fast on his feet as his Maserati.
“Good-bye, Charlie,” he says bleakly. “I hope you find that peace of mind you’re searching for. God knows, you deserve it.”
Wordlessly, I scream after him.
I think I already have.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Charlie!” squeals Rachel, flinging her arms around my neck. “It’s so great to see you. I can’t believe we’re going to be working together again.”
She looks so glossy and healthy, with her polished blond hair and well-rested skin. I wish I looked that good. My own hair is a shapeless mess, my Moroccan tan has faded into the London pollution, and the dark shadows under my eyes give out the impression that I’m wearing a pair of hideously unfunny comedy glasses.
I’m back on the South Bank again, but it’s a very different atmosphere to the one from yesterday. The sun is shining and the gossip chains are clinking with the news of Brad’s demotion and Ramirez’s demise.
“You wouldn’t believe the relief around here, now that Jake’s in charge,” confides Rachel, letting go of my neck to link arms and walk me over to the production trailer. “He’s such a superstar, even stuck behind that desk in L.A. I heard that the sparks are already offering to work extra hours for no overtime. That’s like Moses parting the Red Sea.”
I nod, but I’m not really listening. I ca
n’t get Jake’s last words to me out of my head. I replayed them over and over until I finally fell asleep at four a.m.
“He’s insisting that you work in the office, and not as Brad’s assistant anymore,” she says, pretending not to notice the state of me. “Shall we grab a coffee and go through stuff? On second thought, let’s hold off until after lunch. Brad wants a run-through for the next scene in half an hour.”
No freaking way. If anything’s going to tip me over the edge, it’ll be speaking to that asshole again. Jake was right. Brad never gave a shit about me. He only used me to take pot shots at his brother, and, like a complete idiot, I allowed him to.
“Hey, Rach? I’m not feeling so good. I think I might just—”
“Are you fucking kidding me? What the hell are you doing here?” Max appears out of nowhere, erupting in front of us like a raging volcano. “Jake’s out of his mind to keep you around after all the trouble you’ve caused. You couldn’t help yourself, could you? You knew how he felt about Brad!”
“Good to see you, too, Max,” I say, shattered by his greeting. When did our lighthearted repartee switch to this accusation and regret? “I’m sorry I’m such a crushing disappointment to you.”
“To us both. Talk about the ex-assistant from hell!”
“Max,” whispers Rachel, reprovingly.
“Jake’s had a lucky escape, if you ask me.” He stops after this grand finale of insults, but his eyes are like chips of ice.
“He’s not perfect, you know,” I say, my own temper flaring. Can’t Max see how much I’m hurting here? “I know he slept with Cassie behind Brad’s back.”
“And who did you hear that from? Brad, perchance?”
I go very still. “Are you saying he made it up?”
Of course he did. Everything Brad ever fed me was a lie.
“Max, your first AD is signaling to you,” Rachel says, but Max ignores her.
“Brad’s always had a thing for Jake’s women. Blood’s never thicker than a hot pussy with that asshole. It’s all a twisted game to him. He learned it from the best, from his own fucking father. Jake walked in on him and Cassie last year.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Jesus, I’m going to find that little shit in a minute and knock the living daylights out of him. Jake may have fucked around before you came along, but in reality, he’s the only one of us with any morals. He was there for my father, there for me. He was even there for our sodding mother whenever she deigned to put in an appearance. What Walt Wilson and his devil’s spawn have done to Jake over the years is unforgivable. It’s been layer upon layer of shit and deceit.”
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