His Secretary: Undone and Unveiled (The Complete Series Collection)

by Melanie Marchande

  When it’s all over, and my body sags on the counter, I hold him a little bit tighter for just a few seconds.

  “Stay with me tonight?”

  He shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says. A little hoarsely. Those are the first words he’s spoken since he walked in.

  He withdraws from me quickly and pulls himself back together, and leaves. It all happens within the space of a few moments, and I don’t cry, although it’s threatening, a lump in my throat that just won’t let go.

  After a few fitful hours of sleep, I wake up much earlier than usual and pull on my workout clothes. If I can’t make any sense of my fucked-up relationship with Adrian, at least maybe I can get something productive done.

  I know it’s just the adrenaline, the stress, the mania, making me think that jogging is a good idea. I’ll end up hurting my knee and limping home just like last time. But I have to try something. I can’t keep sitting around and waiting for him to decide what he’s going to do with my life.

  As I step through the front door, something compels me to check the mailbox. I know it’s unlikely that anything’s been delivered since the last time I looked at it, but for some reason, I open the lid and peer inside.

  There is a little piece of paper folded up on the bottom. No envelope. A wave of nausea slams through me, and I unfold it with shaking fingers. I know this paper. I know the heavy type on the heading, the particular way in which the letterhead is stamped.

  It’s not pink, but I know what it means without having to read the words.

  I let myself see it - TERMINATION OF EMPLOYMENT - just so I can be sure. I let the words sink in, and I sit there in my front hallway with the door hanging open, and the paper hanging between my fingers, my head hanging between my knees.

  My first thought is to call Izzy, but I realize I have no story I can tell her. This doesn’t make any sense. I could concoct something about Adrian resigning from his job as my editor, but that’s going to take more energy than I have now.

  All I can do is stare and disbelieve and cry.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I KNOW I’M fired. I know I don’t have a job anymore. But when I wake up, I get in the shower anyway, I get dressed, I even manage to eat a few spoonfuls of yogurt before I gag. I do this before I bother picking up the piece of paper and looking at it again, my hands shaking, and drop it on the floor again as the tears come.

  Last night, I tried to call Adrian at least ten times in a row. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he’s not answering. Clearly, he wants nothing more to do with me.

  And obviously, that’s for the best.

  I can’t accept it. I know I have no choice, but it grates against everything I feel about him. Is there some way I can possibly make him understand? Can I find the words to tell him how I feel? Would it even matter?

  My phone dings with an incoming email as I sit there, curled up on the sofa in my favorite skirt and blouse. I stare at the screen, with unfocused eyes.

  It’s from Natalie McBride.

  The same address I used to correspond with “her,” back when I thought she was real. Those emails that Adrian claims were from Kara, even though everything she wrote seems at odds with what I’ve seen of her personality.

  The email is just a link. I tap it.

  It’s a blog article.

  THE TRUTH ABOUT NATALIE MCBRIDE?

  No one likes citing unnamed sources, but I simply can’t let this one go. I can’t share everything I was told, but suffice it to say I’ve seen ample evidence to convince me that this person is in the know. Natalie McBride is a man - and not just any man, one of the most prominent businessmen in his field. He’s got more in common with Dirk than Amanda. According to my source, he’s a bit of an egomaniac who gets off on knowing he’s fooled everyone…

  Heart pounding in my throat, I open the Natalie McBride Facebook page. There’s a post with over four hundred comments.

  Fuck.

  To my readers -

  I hope some of you will take the time to read this. Please understand I never wanted to lie to you, and while I would never place the blame on anyone else for my actions, I was told this was the only way to reach you. That you would not accept me for who I really am. If I can leave you with just one piece of advice: be very, very wary when you’re told something like that.

  I realize now that it wouldn’t have mattered. You connected with my stories no matter what, and I should have been honest from the beginning. But lies are set in quick-dry concrete. You just have to keep building on them once they’re there, unless you want to take a wrecking ball to the whole thing. And that was a choice I made, on my own. I was counseled to try honesty, but I was afraid.

  What was I afraid of? This. Losing the connections I’ve made with all of you. And just in case that sounds creepy, I want to make it clear that I never presented myself as a woman with the intention of gaining your trust so that I could take advantage of you as a man. I know anyone here who’s corresponded with me will be able to tell you that. I have always tried to be respectful and to maintain boundaries.

  Of everything I’ve gained from these last few years, it’s all of you that I value the most.

  I want you to know that one hundred percent of the proceeds from these books has been donated to charity. That was always the case. I never needed the money, and I didn’t want to profit off of a lie. Many, many people will be better off because you bought my books. If nothing else, I hope that eases your mind.

  I start scrolling through the responses.

  Nat…or whatever your name is, I might be alone in this but I understand. I hope you’ll keep writing because I love your stories and it doesn’t really matter to me who you are. I can’t believe I’m saying this because if you asked me a couple months ago, I would have been really upset that somebody would do this. But after I fell in love with your stories it’s hard to say goodbye. I understand you probably won’t want to write anymore but I hope that you will find a way to continue Dirk and Amanda’s story, I just can’t accept it’s over. I understand what it’s like when people around you tell you that you have to be a certain way, and even though you don’t really believe them you feel like you have to do what they tell you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt anybody. I’ll be praying for you.

  -

  I agree, please keep writing.

  -

  lol wtf is this

  -

  I also would love to see more from you. Nathaniel McBride, anyone?

  -

  Also praying for you, Nat. You obviously had a story in your heart that you needed to tell, and I hope people will be open minded enough to understand.

  -

  Honestly disappointed at all the ass-kissing in here. You realize he LIED to you, right? I don’t know what the point of this confession is. Are we supposed to pat you on the back and make you feel better about yourself? It’s really, really scummy to pretend to be a woman to gain somebody’s trust. That’s what predators do. And we’re just supposed to take your word for it that you’ve never taken advantage of anyone? Please. Anyone who felt victimized would be too scared to step up, your rabid “fans” are CLEARLY okay with all your sliminess (and most of them have probably known all along, let’s be real). They would tear anyone limb from limb if they said one bad thing about. *patiently waits to be deleted and banned*

  -

  Anybody else need some popcorn?

  -

  I used to think guys couldn’t write romance, but you proved me wrong. Please don’t quit. Ignore the haters and just be yourself.

  -

  Something shakes me out of my trance. It’s the ding of another incoming email. My hands are trembling when I open it.

  From: natalie@nataliemcbrideauthor.com

  To: megatron_unleashed@bmail.com

  Relax, I know it wasn’t you. Which only leaves Kara. But to be honest, I don’t particularly care anymore. It’s the last thing on my list of concerns.

  I didn’t m
ean to ruin your life.

  I don’t know what else to say. I’m a bastard and I’m a bully and I ruined the only good thing that’s ever happened to me.

  That’s you, in case you’re having trouble following along.

  You know me now, every part of me, better than anybody else ever has. That’s been true for a long time.

  I’ve been captivated by you since the moment we met. The world’s a brutal place for women like you, but I never saw you falter. Five foot seven in flats, those curves always tugging on the seams of your clothes, like they didn’t want to be covered up. You took up more space than you were allowed. You didn’t smile when you felt like frowning. You spoke your mind, even at the expense of my comfort. And I couldn’t look away.

  You were beautiful, so beautiful, but that seems like too small of a word to describe what you are. You were my muse. I hadn’t written in twenty years, not since my father found my journals and burned them in the backyard. Not since he told me I’d be nothing, nothing, unless I took on the family business.

  But when I saw you, suddenly, I couldn’t stop.

  And I hated myself for giving in to it.

  You’ll certainly hate me now, and you’re right to, but I thought you deserved to know. Not that you’ll believe me, but I didn’t keep emailing you for any reason other than the fact that it made me smile. That I thought I could make you smile. We hadn’t connected like that in such a long time, in years, because I was afraid of what would happen. Still am.

  I wish I could see another way for this to end. But I don’t. You deserve to be free from me and I knew you’d never leave, unless I made it happen. For all your will and spitfire, deep down, you never want to disappoint me.

  You didn’t, Meg. You were never a disappointment. I wish I hadn’t let you believe that you were.

  I’m sorry.

  I stare, and I stare.

  With shaking fingers, I open the number pad - it takes a few tries - and call Adrian. I know he’s not going to pick up, but I have to try.

  I wait for ten rings before I start pulling on clothes, haphazardly, grabbing my wallet and going out to hail a cab.

  The whole ride here, I keep my phone by my ear, even though I know it’s no use.

  Adrian lives on the appropriately-named “Billionaire’s Row,” in the tallest apartment complex in the city. Because of course he does. I’ve been here once or twice, but I’ve always felt too far out of my element to appreciate it. Now, I’m just too angry.

  But the fact that this insufferable, careless man can afford to spend this much on a penthouse condo is sickening. Perhaps not as sickening as the fact that I fell in love with him.

  I avoid the doorman’s eyes as I jam my thumb against the print scanner. Really, I never thought about how remarkable it was that Adrian thought I could be trusted with 24/7 access to his building, but I bet he’s about to regret it.

  After a long, stomach-lurching elevator ride, I find his door and pound it with my fist, until it aches.

  At first, there’s no response. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even home, and why I assumed he must be - when there’s suddenly a series of shuffling and clicking noises, and the door swings open.

  His clothes are rumpled, his hair a complete mess, with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in one hand and a half-empty glass in the other. I’m starting to understand why it was such a production to get the door open.

  “It was you the whole time,” I practically shout at him, not caring if anyone hears.

  “It was me the whole time!” he echoes, spreading his arms out in a dramatic gesture. Jesus, he’s even drunker than I thought.

  I storm inside, kicking the door closed behind me. “Are you fucking serious right now? How long did you know it was me?”

  “I suspected, at first,” he says, swaying a little as he heads for the kitchen. “Then, when the details started to come out, I knew.”

  “Bullshit.” I fold my arms across my chest, protectively. “There’s no way you couldn’t have known from the first email.”

  “Okay, okay.” He sits down, heavily, on a stool at the bar. “I knew, but I didn’t want to know. I told myself it had to be a coincidence, because if it really was you, that’d be too big of a coincidence. It made sense at the time.” He swallows with an effort. “Also, I wanted to know what you say about me behind my back.”

  “Big fucking mystery there.” I stand there, in front of him, wondering if he’ll even remember this tomorrow. “I can’t believe this. You told me to wear lingerie at work.” My face burns as I recall that conversation.

  “And I stand by that suggestion.” He manages a lopsided grin. “You should see the emails I didn’t send you.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. I cannot deal with this right now.

  “I’m not proud of it,” he says, at last, a little more quietly. “But then I saw the things you’d never tell me to my face. Like that you think I’m a good person. That you like how I make you laugh. I shouldn’t have done it, but I’m not sorry I had a chance to find out.” He looks up at me, and there’s no humor left in his face. “I was just begging for scraps, Meg. When it comes to you, that’s all I’ve got.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “No, no, you are not putting me in a position to feel sorry for you. Not today.”

  “Will you please sit down?” he slurs.

  “No, Adrian!” I shout, adrenaline coursing through me as I let five years’ worth of bottled-up anger spill out. “No, I will not fucking sit down! I’m done with this. I’m done with you. You’re fucking toxic, and you poison everything around you, and you already ruined half a decade of my life. I let you take my self esteem, and my self respect, and my sanity. I even shared your bed because I just needed something to make me feel better about all this shit. And it did, you know that? You’re pretty fucking good at making me forget what a train wreck my life is. And the fact that you made it that way. You’re my own personal heroin. I’m fucking done, Adrian. I hate who I am now. I hate what you’ve turned me into.”

  He just stares at me. I watch his nostrils flare, his eyes flash, his chest rising and falling more rapidly as he listens, but he doesn’t say anything. My face is burning, and I can feel angry tears beginning to gather and trickle down my cheeks. I don’t even care. After today, I’m never going to see him again.

  “I used to be a good person, Adrian.” My voice is thick with sobs I force myself to swallow. “I used to have friends. I used to have fun. I even used to be able to tolerate my parents, for a monthly phone call, for a couple visits a year. It was shitty, but at least it was something. Now I’m going to be eating a fucking Swanson meal for Christmas with a god damn plastic tree in my discount apartment because paying me another couple dollars an hour would mean you have to cut down on your Dom Perignon consumption. And I can’t start my own family, because now, thanks to you, I’m exactly the shrill insufferable bitch you always thought I was.”

  He just keeps staring at me.

  Finally, he speaks, his tongue sounding thick in his mouth. “You’re not…you’re not,” he says.

  “Really? That’s the best you’ve got?”

  His eyes are barely even open anymore. Jesus Christ.

  I storm out of Adrian Risinger’s penthouse suite, out of his building, out of his life.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TIME PASSES.

  I wake up in the morning. I shower. I swallow a mouthful of vitamins I know I’m supposed to be taking, and I update my resume.

  I make a Linked In profile and I send in applications and I wait. Most of the time, I remember to eat. At night, I stare at the ceiling until I fall asleep. Sometimes it takes too long.

  If I dream, I don’t remember it.

  I do all of these things without feeling. If there’s still a heart beating in my chest, I’m not particularly aware of it. I’ve had to excise the part of myself that was stupid enough to fall in love with a man like Adrian, and it’s left precious little behind.

  Someday,
I know, I will look back on this time in my life and wonder what the hell I could have possibly been thinking. I might even laugh at it, perhaps with my kind, slightly older, curly-haired husband who is a college professor or an assistant regional manager of who gives a fuck. We’ll swap stories about the crazy exploits of our youth. He’ll tell me about the time he broke his leg jumping into a shallow lake, I’ll tell him about the time I slept with my boss. We’ll be that kind of couple. He won’t get jealous, because he knows that time is long gone.

  He knows, as well as I do, you can’t grow old with a man like Adrian.

  Maybe someday we’ll see each other. Not bloody likely, in a city this big. But it could happen. Maybe he’ll be reduced to doing his own food shopping at some point, and I’ll meet him in the ice cream aisle with a baby on my hip. Maybe I’ll pretend not to recognize him.

  A month passes, and I find myself with a new job. It doesn’t pay as much, but it’s enough. My boss is patient and understanding. A normal person, basically.