by Amelia Wilde
I drop my phone back into my purse and flick on my computer screen, an odd wave of focus coming over me.
I don’t have to sit here waiting to see what’s going to happen.
I can take charge of my own life.
It won’t be the first time I’ve done it, and it won’t be the last, but I need to do something right now to make a change. It will put my mind at ease. It will put a stop to this endless second-guessing about a relationship that probably wasn’t going to go anywhere. Sooner or later, the truth was going to come out. There isn’t a person on earth who could keep a secret like that for a lifetime. Jesus, what if we’d been married? What if I’d been pregnant?
I need to put myself back in the driver’s seat, and I know just how I’m going to do it.
I stand up from my desk and glance at my reflection in the office window, tugging my blazer so that it lays smoothly over my curves. Then I’m in motion, out the door.
“Adam, call Walker and tell him I’m coming down for a meeting.”
“Of course, Ms. Campbell,” Adam calls out to my retreating back.
Walker’s office is on the opposite end of the floor, so it takes me a little longer than I’d like to get there. Quite a few people greet me as I go past, and I stop to chat with most of them. I’ve always made it a habit to be a charmer in the office. You never know when those connections might come in handy.
Finally, Walker’s secretary—who is constantly on the phone—waves me in with a smile.
“Thanks, Marjorie,” I mouth, and go in through Walker’s open door.
He turns away from his computer when he hears me enter. “Quinn,” he says with a broad grin. “Adam said you were on your way. What can I do for you?”
I sit down in one of the two chairs across from Walker’s desk and cross my legs, making sure my posture is straight and confident. “You know how much I love it here at HRM, don’t you?”
A flicker of confusion crosses his face, but his smile doesn’t waver. “You’re doing quite the job with the Pierce account,” Walker laughs. “If you hated it here, there’s no way you’d put in that kind of effort.”
“The thing is—working on the Pierce account has really opened my eyes. I don’t want to leave HRM, I just want to go…bigger.” I raise my hands in front of me, giving Walker an approximation of the size of my dreams. I let my smile extend all the way to my eyes.
He cocks his head and considers me. “What do you mean by bigger? Are you requesting a transfer? There’s only one office that…” His mouth drops open. “Damn, you’re an ambitious one. Are you talking about what I think you’re talking about?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice strong and enthusiastic. “London.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Christian
Standing in the lobby of Pierce Industries on Friday morning with a black portfolio in my hand, it’s hard to believe that my life has come to this.
Frank, my lawyer, stands at my side.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says for the hundredth time. “We can begin private negotiations on this issue without letting the world know through a press conference. The news will break eventually. It doesn’t have to happen today. As your lawyer, I have to advise you that this—”
“I know,” I say quickly, cutting him off. “I know, Frank, but this is what I have to do. The damn thing starts in five minutes. Are you really going to stand here trying to talk me out of it until the last second?”
He shakes his head, then pats my shoulder. “I had to try one more time.”
“Glad it was the last one.”
The press is gathering on the sidewalk. Two different networks have cameras here, and I see reporters from three print outlets, plus the usual cadre of bloggers who show up whenever someone from a multinational holds a press conference.
Good, I think. She can’t miss this.
In fact, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t miss this.
She can’t miss this, because from what I understand, this is my last chance.
The text from Carolyn came in late Wednesday night.
You up?
Always :)
Ha.
What do you need?
Chris, I don’t know what’s going on between you and Q. None of my business. Don’t need to know the details on your end unless you want to tell me. But she told me this evening that she started talking to HRM about a transfer to London. If everything works out, she’ll be gone in a matter of weeks.
Thanks for letting me know, my friend.
Welcome.
I haven’t talked to Carolyn in person since she got busy with her boutique and I stopped frequenting the Swan quite as much, so I don’t know how pissed she is at me for fooling around with her roommate’s heart. Obviously she’s not too pissed, otherwise she wouldn’t have given me a heads up, but it’s probably time to have a conversation with her once this news breaks.
I called my lawyer within five minutes of receiving her message and told him to move everything up to the earliest possible date. If I’m going to do this, it has to be now.
Three minutes to go. This news is going to do more than break.
It’s going to explode.
Two minutes. I pull my phone out of my pocket and swipe to unlock the screen. Quinn’s office number is the first contact on my list.
Adam takes the call.
“Quinn Campbell’s office.”
“This is Christian Pierce. Is Ms. Campbell available to speak with me?”
“Her line is clear. Hold one moment, please.”
“Thank you.”
There’s a muted silence as Adam transfers the call, and then a click as Quinn picks up her handset.
“Quinn Campbell.”
Her voices makes my heart skip a beat. Am I imagining the hitch I heard in the breath she took right after she answered?
“Pull up a window on your computer and start streaming ABC7.” Their camera guy is fifteen feet away from me right now, fiddling with the tech at his shoulder. The anchor is a tall redhead in a coral jacket standing just to the right of his elbow. In another minute, they’ll be broadcasting my announcement to the entire city. Perhaps the entire world. The anchor looks down and presses a finger to her ear—listening to whatever’s coming in from the studio, probably.
“What?” Quinn asks, her voice pure worry. “Why? Did something happen?”
It hits me all at once that Quinn might be imagining some kind of terrorist situation.
“I’m holding a press conference outside the offices of Pierce Industries.”
“What?” I hear papers rustling in the background, a series of clicks. “We didn’t plan for—what are you doing?”
“I’m telling the truth.”
Before she can say another word, I disconnect the call, then flip through my settings, shutting down every possible ringtone and chime. I hand the phone to my lawyer, who tucks it into his leather portfolio. He’ll hold it for me while I’m making my remarks so there’s no chance of me doing something idiotic like dropping it on the sidewalk. He was a stickler on that point. Why, I don’t know.
I’ve been relatively calm, but now that the press is beginning to focus all their attention on the podium, my heart beats faster.
This is it.
This is the moment I thought would never come, and now I’m the one forcing it to happen.
Frank puts his hand on my shoulder in a show of strength and support, turns me toward him, and then looks me up and down. I follow his gaze, making sure that my jacket is buttoned, my fly is zipped, there are no errant threads, no pieces of lint—nothing to distract from my message. Quinn herself has done the same thing many times since we started working together.
I wish she was doing it right now. I wish it was her by my side. Frank’s a good guy, but nobody holds a candle to Quinn.
I steel myself. This is the only way I’ll ever have a chance at getting her back. If I want her to stand by my side at any point i
n the future, I have to get through what’s happening here right now.
“You ready?” Frank asks, looking directly into my eyes. This is my final chance to back out. I know he’d happily go out and tell the press that there had been a mistake, that there would be no announcement today.
“Let’s get this shit over with.”
He gives me a confident nod, and then we both head toward the front doors.
The sun is hot, beating down on the shoulders of my suit, instantly making me feel like I’m trapped in a furnace.
As we discussed in advance, Frank approaches the podium first. “Christian Pierce of Pierce Industries,” he says simply. The reporters shift their weight from foot to foot. One blogger raises his hand as if he wants to ask Frank a question before this circus has even started, but then decides better of it.
I move to the podium and open the portfolio, sliding the sheet of paper with my remarks—written in a large font in case I lose my ability to see clearly—out of the protective pocket.
I clear my throat, scan the words on the page, then look directly into the ABC7 camera. Conveniently, they’ve positioned themselves right in front of the podium.
I swallow hard.
Everyone holds their breath.
Somewhere across the city, Quinn is watching.
“Good morning,” I begin, my voice confident and clear. “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.”
They don’t wait until I read the rest of my statement.
They just start shouting random questions.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Quinn
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.
One more block.
As I sprint across the intersection, blisters rising on my heels and the bottom of my feet, a couple of businessmen turn and step out of my way. It’s then that I see him, halfway down the block.
I slow to a half jog, not wanting to barrel into a crowd of reporters looking like a desperate, hot mess.
His lawyer steps up to the podium and raises both hands, saying something I can’t hear, and then both men turn their backs to the press gaggle and start to walk back toward the entrance. Just then, a heavily muscled man in a dark suit comes out of the building and stands in front of the doors, crossing his arms over his chest. Security to keep the press out.
I pick up the pace, hurrying toward them. This is going to be a complete pain in the ass if I don’t get there before he goes inside, an awkward phone call so that the guard knows to let me in, another fifteen minutes in the heat in front of the cameras, who will linger long enough to get more b-roll and film the reporter segments…
Suddenly, I’m overwhelmed by the need to get to Christian—Elijah?—I can’t keep it straight—right now. As soon as he steps back into the buil
ding, he’s going to be surrounded by people demanding to know everything, and once that happens, all bets are off. I might not be able to get to him even if I can get inside.
Christian turns and looks back over his shoulder. Over the traffic noise, I can’t tell if he’s responding to another question or telling them that the interview is over, but it buys me another few seconds…
His lawyer reaches out, puts a hand on his shoulder, and both men turn back toward the doors. Fuck. I hustle forward, but my shoes cut into my feet, a searing line of pain where the skin has rubbed raw. I can’t—
“Christian!” I shout.
He doesn’t hear me, but a couple of the bloggers look my way. I don’t give a shit.
“Christian!” I shout again, at the top of my lungs, and now they’re all looking at me.
Christian’s lawyer nudges his arms, and he turns.
I can’t stop myself. It hurts like a bitch, running with the skin on my feet in this condition, but I don’t care, I go toward him like there’s no time left.
For all I know, maybe there isn’t.
His face is a mask of confusion, but as I come closer his eyes widen with surprise, and then, as he registers the expression on my face, delight.
I barrel into him, still moving so quickly that it almost takes both of us to the ground.
And then, in a completely unprofessional display, I lock my arms around his neck and kiss him like I’ve never kissed anyone before in my life, like we’re alone in his bedroom, like this kiss will be enough to heal all the wounds between us, like I never want to stop.
I am lost in him. I never care to be found.
We kiss for so long that when we come up for air, I’m gasping for breath. Christian’s arms lock around me, our cheeks pressed together.
“I did it for you,” he says, his voice heavy and thick.
There’s nothing I can think of to say, except:
“I know. I love you. I love you.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Christian