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.”