by Tracy Wolff
And the fact that there are now dozens of reporters camped at the bottom of our driveway only makes the situation a million times worse.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Ethan suggests gently. “I need to call Stu back and figure out how we’re going to counter this.”
“I don’t think you can counter it, can you? Weren’t you just telling me that the person who releases the story is the one who controls the narrative?”
“Yeah, well, not this time. Not this narrative.” He pull the covers back, tries to coax me back into bed.
“I’m not a child,” I snap at him. “I’m not going to go back to sleep and leave you to handle everything.”
I snatch my robe, start to put it on, but before I even slide my arms into the sleeves, I realize it’s not enough coverage for me. These accusations—no matter how untrue they are—have torn me open, left me feeling exposed and unprotected.
Dropping the robe on the bed, I detour to the closet. It’s the middle of summer and toasty warm outside, but still I grab a pair of jeans and a high necked sweatshirt. I know the press is down at the end of the driveway, know that we have covers on all the windows they’re facing. But still, there’s an entire side of our house that faces the ocean—an ocean that anyone can hang out in or over. And the paparazzi have really powerful camera lenses.
The last thing I want is them to get a picture of me looking anything but fully clothed. Especially since Ethan gave me a couple love bites last night that I have absolutely no desire for anyone else to see, ever.
Soon, Ethan’s pulling on clothes, too—the same ones he wore for a couple hours last night and left crumpled in a chair before our late night hot tub adventure. Funny how circumstances change everything. Last night, those clothes looked so inviting. This morning, they look like armor.
I start down the hall to the kitchen, flinching a little more with each step I take out of the cocoon of our bedroom. My stomach is still pitching and rolling, but I ignore it. This mess has already made me throw up twice. It’s not going to do it a third time.
Ethan’s already on the phone, and this time he has it on speaker so I can hear everything Stu is saying. I know he’s trying to show me that he doesn’t think I’m fragile, that he doesn’t think I’ll break, but I can see him wince every time Stu says something he thinks will hurt me.
I put on a pot of coffee, but the smell is so sharp that it upsets my already messed up stomach. I pour Ethan a cup, but settle on a cup of tea for myself. Then I pull out my tablet and start to Google. It doesn’t take long before I realize the story really is everywhere. As of now, I really do look like a whore and worse, Ethan looks like a fool.
This is what people in America have woken up to this morning. This is what’s on their news home pages, what’s scrolling across their Twitter feeds, what’s being bantered about on Facebook. There are already a few Instagram pages up, most of them created by men who take the few public photos of me—including my wedding photos—and use them to zoom in on my various body parts while writing captions about how hard they’d rape me or how they want me to choke on their big, fat dicks.
This is what my life has been reduced to. What I’ve been reduced to. Every law school I apply to will know about this scandal. Every admissions board will have at least one person who’s heard the lies, or read comments like these below an article about me. Or, worse, who will believe what they’ve read. The thought breaks through my resolve, through the calm façade I’ve worked so hard to keep up for myself as much as for Ethan.
I look away, blink my eyes fast in an effort to hide the tears before he sees. But something must have caught his attention because Ethan wanders over, glancing down to see what I’m looking at. And all but rips the tablet out of my hands. He hangs up on Stu, who was in the middle of a sentence and speed-dials someone else. Seconds later, he’s talking to his security chief, his voice meaner and deadlier than I have ever heard it as he walks down the hall to his office. I try to follow, but he shakes his head at me sharply and after biting out a harsh—“stay off the fucking internet”—all but slams the door in my face.
Seems like I’m not the only one who isn’t handling the stress well. I’m about to shove the door back open when my own phone rings. It’s Tori, and for a second I think about not answering it. The last thing I want right now is sympathy. I don’t know what I do want, but I know it isn’t that.
“Unlock the front door, but don’t open it,” she tells me with no preamble. “I’ve got donuts and a pack of reporters hot on my heels.”
Of course she does. Of course my best friend brought donuts to a crisis.
I hurry down the hall and do what she says. I start to open the door and wait for her, but my earlier thoughts of long range lenses and paparazzi come back to me and so I just wait to the left of the foyer, out of the front door’s sight line.
I’m only waiting a few seconds before I hear Tori’s car pull up practically to the front door. A car door slams and then the front door is flying open and my best friend is standing there, a bottle of Baileys Irish cream in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.
“I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I am more than in the mood for a little Irish coffee this morning.” And then she’s dropping the donuts on the nearest table and throwing her arms around me. “And here I thought you’d be satisfied with the press you got from the wedding. Who knew you were such a fame whore?”
I choke out a laugh, because how could I not? Besides, it’s laugh or cry and I have already done more than enough of the latter when it comes to Brandon. From now on, humor is definitely the way to go.
“I think you mean infamy, don’t you?” I ask as I scoop up the donuts and usher her through the house.
“Whatever. Six of one, half dozen the other.” She looks around suspiciously. “Where’s that idiot husband of yours? What’s the good of having more money than God if you don’t use it to bend people to your will?”
“He’s not actually a despot, you know.”
“Well, maybe he should be. At this point, I’m all for a good, old-fashioned beheading or two.” She pops open the donut box. “Cream or jelly?”
The abrupt change of subject has me laughing all over again. “I don’t know that I’m up for either this morning, to be honest.”
“Well then, take both.” She grabs a paper towel and dumps two donuts on it—then shoves it across the table at me. “And thank God, you’ve got coffee. The phone started ringing before seven this morning.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry.”
She waves a hand airily. “Don’t even worry about it. I consider matching wits with reporters a blood sport. And you know how I love to draw blood.”
She pours two mugs of coffee, adds a large dollop of Baileys to both. Then carries them over to the table before all but falling into a chair with an exhausted huff. “I’m telling you, this whole best-friend-to-the-rescue thing takes work.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her again and again she waves me away.
“So, where is the man of the house? And whose death is he currently plotting?”
“I think whose death am I not plotting is the better question,” Ethan says as he comes into the room. He’s got his cell phone in one hand and the house cordless in another. “Less people to name that way.”
Tori laughs. “Yes, well, it’s about time. I’m looking forward to watching the great Ethan Frost kick a little ass.”
“I’m going to kick a lot more than that,” he tells her, voice grim and eyes nearly black with fury. “Thanks for the donuts,” he adds as he grabs one.
“There are few things in life a big pile of sugar and fat can’t make better. I mean, besides my ass,” Tori cracks. “But then, calories don’t count on days like today.”
“Nothing counts on days like today,” I tell her.
She nods in agreement. “Hey, you’re not drinking your special coffee.” She slides the mug closer to me even as she takes a big sip from her
cup. “It will cure whatever the sugar and fat don’t.”
Ethan raises a brow at that, at least until I point to the bottle of Baileys sitting on the counter. Then he just nods as he devours a second donut in three bites. He’s usually such a health nut that it’s strange to see him eating junk food—and enjoying it.
“So, what exactly is the plan here?” Tori asks after she’s eaten two donuts and Ethan has downed three. Mine sit, untouched, on my napkin, but neither of them make mention of it. “I mean, besides ripping your no-good family limb from fucking limb?”
“Tori!” I don’t think Ethan’s at the joking stage yet.
“That’s pretty much the plan right now. My attorneys are contacting each of the other women Brandon raped and then paid to keep quiet. Hopefully, they’ll manage to get two or three who are willing to violate the nondisclosure agreements.”
“Won’t there be financial penalties for them?” I ask.
“Yes. And I’ll gladly pay every single penny. At the same time, Stu is launching his own counteroffensive. We’ve had a copy of your nondisclosure agreement delivered to contacts at CNN, MSNBC and various other sites—along with copies of the rape complaint you filed against him, complete with the photographs of the bruises that bastard left. Of course, we’ve made it clear that the photographs are of a minor and not to be used under any circumstances. They are merely to cement the argument.”
“How did you get the complaint? He was a minor. The judge had it sealed.”
Tori and Ethan both look at me a little pityingly as my best friend rubs her thumb against her index and middle finger in the universal gesture for money. Of course. I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining that police and court records were actually inviolate. It’s not like Brandon and his family hadn’t already taught me just how much money could buy.
“And where are you going?” Tori asks. For the first time, I notice that Ethan is dressed in what I consider the most powerful of his power suits.
“I’m meeting with one of my attorneys and a friend of mine from college who is now special agent in charge of the Los Angeles branch of the FBI. I’ll be showing him a file my private investigator has assembled that reveals Brandon’s very close ties to the Valducci crime syndicate. Two hours after he gets the file, it will be sent to the same news outlets that got your NDA. A few hours after that, we should have statements from one or two of the other women Brandon has hurt.”
“Holy shit!” Tori says, clapping her hands in delight. “Ethan Frost is kicking ass and taking names. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you had it in you. I mean, you’re such a good guy and all.”
“Yeah, well, good guys have a tendency to cultivate good friends in high places. Brandon and my mother counted, somewhat misguidedly I might add, on me feeling some kind of family loyalty toward them. What they didn’t count on was the fact that all my loyalty belongs to Chloe now. When they messed with her, they lost any chance they had to get out of this unscathed.”
He grabs my untouched cup of Irish coffee and downs it in a couple of smooth swallows.
“You didn’t set all this up in the last hour.” He looks at me for long seconds, like he’s trying to decide how much I can take. “Tell me,” I say.
“This is the first wave of the plan I’ve been developing for the last three weeks.”
“The plan I asked you not to do.”
He meets my eyes unflinchingly. “Yes.”
“How much more is there?” I ask. “What else do you have planned?”
“I’m hoping nothing else will be necessary,” he tells me. “I’m hitting this hard so that it ends here. Now.”
“If it doesn’t work?”
“Oh, it will work.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“If it doesn’t, then I have other leverage to use against my mother and stepfather. Leverage that will have a number of their connections putting pressure on them to make sure the story dies.” He says it matter-of-factly, but there’s a cold resolve in his eyes, in the way he holds his body, that sends a shiver straight down my spine. “Don’t worry, Chloe. I will clean this up.”
This is the Ethan Frost that made an empire from nothing. The Ethan Frost who manages to stay on the very cutting edge of technology. The Ethan Frost who everyone forgets about because of the hugely generous philanthropy, the incredible employee benefits and the nice-guy exterior.
But underneath all that is a core of pure steel, one that will not bend when threatened. One that will push back until his opposition is crushed beneath the weight and the power of it.
It’s a new realization for me, one that is terrifying and fascinating and arousing, all at the same time.
Before I can ask him any more questions, his phone beeps with a text. He glances at it, then says, “The helicopter is five minutes out.”
“Helicopter?” I ask, wide-eyed. “You have a helicopter?”
“I have three helicopters.”
“Where’s it going to land?”
“I’ve got a helipad on the roof.” He smiles at the incredulity on my face, then bends down and presses a lingering kiss to my lips. “I need you to lay low today,” he tells me. “Just chill in the house with Tori, watch movies, don’t answer the phone unless you recognize the number, don’t give the reporters anything to report on.”
I start to say something, but he interrupts before I can so much as get a word out. “Please. I know it sucks. But it’s only for today, maybe for tomorrow. Please. I need to know you’re safe while I’m doing all of this or I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”
“I’m not a moron, you know. I wasn’t going to argue. I was going to ask you to be careful.”
“Oh.” He looks a little nonplussed, like that so wasn’t the answer he was expecting.
“I may be an attorney in training, but I really don’t argue with you just to argue, Ethan. Besides, to be honest, there is nothing less appealing to me right now than having to face the vultures at the bottom of the driveway.”
“I know. And I’m sorry you have to go through this.” He gets another text, just as I hear a helicopter approaching. “I need to go,” he continues. “I’ve got security guys on the way here. I’ll be texting you their photos as soon as I get them. There will be two in the backyard, two in the front yard, one in the alcove down by the water and two inside the gates at the bottom of the driveway. You won’t need to have anything to do with them, but I want you to know they’re there. And I want you to make sure that if, for any reason, someone comes to the door, it’s one of the men in the photos I’ll be sending you.”
“Seven security guards? Seven? Seriously?”
“I’d hire ten times that if I thought I needed to keep you safe.”
“Okay, mushy hour is over,” Tori tells him with a groan. “Besides, from the racket overhead, I’m pretty sure the helicopter has landed. So grab your briefcase and go save the world. I’ll take care of your girl.”
“I never had any doubt of that.” He grins at Tori, the first real smile I’ve seen from him all day.
“Amazingly enough, your girl can take care of herself,” I say, mildly insulted.
“Of course you can. But eight more people can take care of you even better.” And with that puzzling bit of knowledge hanging in the air, he takes off down the hallway at close to a jog.
“Soooooo,” Tori drawls after several long seconds pass in silence. “You want to watch a helicopter take off from your roof?”
“Actually, yes. I really kind of do.”
“Hot damn!” She claps her hands with glee. “Let’s go!”
Chapter 21
“Prince Charming, riding off into the sunset,” Tori says mockingly after Ethan’s helicopter has finally disappeared in the distance.
“Totally accurate,” I agree. “Except for the fact that it’s barely eight in the morning. And he’s flying, not riding. And he’s not technically Prince Charming…so really, if you think about it, you’re O for three.”
“Yes, he is. And even without all those things, I think I’m going to keep him.”
“Uh, yeah. That’s for sure. I mean, if you don’t, I will.”
I just roll my eyes as I lead the way down two flights of stairs and back to the kitchen. “So, since we’re trapped in here all day, what do you want to do? John Hughes movie marathon?”
“How about a Scandal marathon?”
“I don’t know. I kind of feel like there’s enough scandal in my life right now without adding Olivia Pope into the mix.”
Tori bursts out laughing. “Good call. John Hughes movies it is. I call Ferris Bueller’s Day Off first.”
“Really? I wanted Breakfast Club.”
“You always want Breakfast Club. And then you fall asleep before we can watch any of the other movies. I swear you have boring-as-fuck narcolepsy or something.”
“Or I work all day and I’m exhausted by the time midnight rolls around. But look, it’s only eight a.m. I promise I’ll make it through Ferris Bueller and Pretty in Pink before I succumb to any ‘boring-as-fuck’ sleeping disorders.”
She eyes me suspiciously. “All right, whatever. But only because half of America is currently calling you a whore. And I swear, if you fall asleep before we watch at least three movies, I’m dragging your naked ass out to the pool and throwing you in. In front of what I am sure is no less than ten cameras aimed at your backyard. I mean, really, I should probably do it anyway. It would probably up your standing with at least half the population. The male half, but still.”