Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
A shot of vomit races up my throat. I dart into the bathroom and spit it in the toilet.
I rack my brain for a list of contacts, searching for the right person to handle this public relations disaster. My PR team is the logical solution, but I know what will happen. They will spin the situation to benefit me. That’s what I pay them to do—especially when I have so much on the line. So much to potentially lose.
But not this time.
I won’t allow them to put Blakely in a bad light, no matter what it costs me.
My heart pulls in my chest as I think of her. I’ve got you, cutie. I promise.
I pick up my phone and ignore the missed calls, voicemails, and text messages. I scroll until I find Frances’s direct number. She answers in two rings.
“Renn, you’re making me work for my money this morning,” she says, her tone edged in annoyance. “We’ve been inundated with requests for a statement. I’ve put together a response for you to approve. It’s in your email.”
“I’m having a terrific morning, thanks. How are you?”
“Cut the shit. We don’t have time for that today.”
Her abruptness eats away at my already frayed nerves.
“Have you checked your email?” Frances asks.
“No. As you might imagine, I’ve been pretty busy since I got up.”
“I’ll break it down for you. The only solution is to try to get ahead of the story and admit it was a mistake—”
“I’m not saying that.” I stop in my tracks. This is exactly why I’m calling you. “I’m not throwing the door open for Blakely to get smeared by those fucking snakes that call themselves journalists.”
“I understand that. But I’m paid to protect your image. Your father has already called this morning—”
“Who pays you, Frances?” I ask, my voice shaking with anger. “Me or my father?”
“You. But sometimes, in these situations, you forget the value of your image. Of your family’s image.”
I laugh angrily. “And what about Blakely’s? She’s disposable—why? Because her last name isn’t worth as much financially as mine?”
She sighs. “Renn …”
I start pacing again. “I’m not issuing anything that puts Blakely in the crosshairs. Period. It’s out of the question. Don’t frame this as a mistake that’ll have everyone speculating that she coerced me into it, tried to trap me, or is looking for a payout. I won’t sign off on it.”
“You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right? Make it a nonissue. We need to frame it ourselves—and we have a very small window to do that. The media will have their day with it; we can’t help that now. Our best option is to own it, sit back, and let it burn itself out. You can make a sizable donation to a charity next week for a good photo op, then move on.”
I clench my jaw, hissing a breath through the phone.
She’s right and I know it. We’ve done it before. Frances can whip something together, phrased just so, to explain this off, while putting the least amount of blame on me as we can. I’ll probably keep my contract. Dad will figure his shit out; he always does. But what happens to Blakely?
“An annulment takes time,” Frances says, her voice lower. Calmer. “We need your attorneys on this now—if you haven’t called them already.” She takes a deep breath. “We need to stay on top of this, Renn. The longer we go, the less control we’ll have over the narrative. So what do you want to do?”
I close my eyes. “You realize that short of this being a real marriage because you’re in love, the only way to possibly save Blakely’s image, your contract, and your father’s purchase is to nip this in the bud, right?”
“I’ll call you later, Frances. Just hold off for a little while.”
She sighs in frustration. “Make it quick, Renn.”
The call ends.
I look at the ceiling and groan, sliding a hand down my face.
My right eye is sore from one of Brock’s shitty punches. There’s a small knot on my jawline. And … what’s that on my chest?
I glance down and spot a bandage. “Huh?”
I pull it off to uncover a tattoo … of Blakely’s name. Over my heart.
My laughter shakes my whole body as vague memories of lying on a chair with Blakely standing over me with a marker trickle through my mind. I can hear her giggle as she drew on my skin. The playful sweetness in her eyes as she watched the artist imprint her design onto me.
The memory doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t make me mad or embarrassed. In fact, it makes me smile.
She makes me smile.
If the paparazzi weren’t involved, this whole thing would be hilarious. I married Blakely Evans. For once, I made a great choice.