A few seconds later, I get a call from Court. “You didn’t see the article?”
“What article?” There’s so much crap written about me that if I tried to keep up with all of it, I’d never have time to sleep, much less take care of the medical centers.
“It says you’re shooting blanks and Evie’s kid isn’t yours. Oh, and the marriage isn’t real because you weren’t supposed to marry her.” Court pauses for a moment. “There’s also some stuff about her. Greedy, gold digger… You know, the usual.”
My jaw muscles clench. Murderous rage pours through me as I sit up straight. “Who wrote this shit?”
“Tom Brockman.”
That asshole. Nothing’s sacred for that bottom feeder in his quest for clicks. Every piece of dumb gossip and speculation he hears about turns into an article. He went after Court’s family earlier, then attempted to ruin Court’s fiancée’s as well.
“Should’ve run him over when I had the chance,” Court mutters.
“You think a lot of people saw it?” I ask, praying the article’s buried under something juicier.
“I don’t know. It got published this afternoon, and it’s trending now.”
Fuck.
“Lots of comments. All bullshit. Don’t even bother looking.”
“I gotta go,” I say, hanging up because now I have to see the comments.
The online trolls are out in droves. Many mock me, calling me impotent, among other things. I don’t care about that, though. I’ve been judged and attacked before because of my family’s position and wealth. Normally I just laugh it off.
But this time they’re dragging Evie into it, and she isn’t used to this. She won’t understand. I remember how uncomfortable she was with all the reporters and photographers after the auction…how much she didn’t like the idea of public exposure when we had to go to Vegas together for our date.
“Gold digger” is the kindest term people are throwing at her. It enrages me that the woman I adore—the mother of my child—is under attack because of her association with me. Because vultures like Brockman won’t leave her out of it.
Brockman is going to pay for this. I’ll make the motherfucker bleed. He’s going to wish he never wrote that article. He’ll wish he never learned the goddamn alphabet.
My phone vibrates in my hand. Barron.
“How’s Evie?” His voice is tight, which means he’s read the article. Miles undoubtedly showed it to him.
“As far as I know, she hasn’t seen it yet.” She’s still downstairs, which means she’s still on the phone with her mom. Then it hits me. Has Mari seen it? Shit.
“But she will.” It’s a flat statement. People always notice articles about themselves, unless they’re living in a cave somewhere.
“Most likely.”
“Stress is bad for pregnant women. Ethel almost miscarried once because of it.”
I’ve heard that story, and although I’ve always felt sympathy before, now my emotions veer into fear. I can’t have Evie lose our child because of this. It isn’t just that I want the child—because I do. But the emotional and physical trauma a woman experiences from miscarriage is something that can never fully heal. “I’ll take care of it,” I say firmly.
“The family will respond,” Barron says, quoting the phrase we use to show unity against outsiders. “Evie is one of us, Nate. Nobody hurts one of our own.”
I finally rein in my own emotions and hear the cold rage radiating from Barron.
“They think this article will disgrace Evie or make us turn our backs on her. It will not. If they want to come at us, they can strike at me directly. Everyone involved will pay.”
“Tom Brockman is mine,” I say before Barron decides to drop a nuke on his apartment building.
“Fine, but I can’t promise he won’t feel some collateral damage. Give Evie my love, and tell her she has nothing to worry about. Next time, they’ll think twice before publishing this type of trash.” He hangs up.
I get a text from Justin next. Is Evie okay? The family will respond. This will not go unpunished.
Vanessa. The bastard is going down. Tell Evie to ignore the haters. We have more lawyers than anybody and a war chest big enough to destroy them all.