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Andrew looks away first. Pierce is looking over at me now. His eyes… his eyes… I look over at Myrtle, who has this weird smile on her face as she gazes up at Pierce.
What the hell?
Is she looking at him weird?
And… wait. Is he looking at her weird too?
Andrew leans in to whisper something to Pierce and Pierce takes his attention to the microphone in front of him. He nods to someone off stage and then taps it, making the room boom with loud thuds.
“Looks like we’re ready,” he says.
And does he sound… sad?
Jesus. I sigh. I didn’t care what Pierce was feeling before now, but seeing him so affected by what’s happening… I feel so guilty. For all of it.
“I’m very sad to bring you all here this morning. But…” He looks at Myrtle and me again. “But we have a traitor in our midst. A traitor of the highest order. Because she took advantage of my trust.”
There’s an audible gasp from my co-workers.
“Yes, this is about the Sexpert. This is about one of my employees—someone I counted on to help me run this business efficiently—taking advantage of private information and using it for her own benefit.”
I slink down in my chair. That’s not how it happened. That’s just not how it happened.
“I made a generous offer with the hope that this whole mess could be avoided. But she refused to come forward. So yes, Le Manians, I suppose we could just… let it go. Or perhaps she could be sent an injunction or there’s some other legal recourse. But honestly, I’m beyond all that. This is no longer about who did what to whom in a legal sense. This is about loyalty. This is about trust. This is about Le Man. The envelope, please.”
Pierce holds out his hand and Andrew, rolling his eyes, hands Pierce a pink envelope, which Pierce opens with a loud rip.
He takes out a black card, stares poignantly right at me, and says, “And the Sexpert is… Myrtle Rothschild.”
“What?” I say. And so does Myrtle. But I say it with surprise and she says it with laughter.
“Oh, that is too much,” she cackles. “Me?” She looks up at Pierce, her hand over her heart. “I’m flattered, but—”
“Security!” Pierce bellows with a wave of his hand. “Escort Ms. Rothschild from the building!”
Myrtle stands up now, because two gigantic goons in black suits are coming toward her like she’s about to be whisked away to some top-secret Le Man rendition protocol. Even with all the other ways Pierce can be insane, this is in. Sane.
“Pierce!” Myrtle yells over the commotion that has erupted. Everyone is on their feet, talking loudly, as the goons grab her by the arms and start dragging her away. “Pierce!” she yells again. “You cannot be serious! I’m not the Sexpert!”
I look at Andrew. He looks at me and shrugs. And even though I can’t hear him, I read his lips loud and clear.
He mouths, “Ball’s in your court, cupcake.”
“Wait!” I yell. But no one is listening to me. “Wait!” I try again, louder. “It’s not her!”
Still, no one is listening. Everyone is talking too loud and now Myrtle is being dragged up the center aisle, resisting like a sacrificial virgin about to be thrown into a volcano.
And then Myrtle’s last words echo in my head. “You’re like my best friend here and I’d be super upset if you left.”
I panic. And run up the stairs that lead to the stage. But I’m blocked by a security guard who spreads his arms out wide, dodging left when I dodge right, then right when I dodge left, because he thinks I’m about to assassinate Pierce.
But I’m an athlete. Was. Once. And I know how to body-check a goon. So I rush forward right at him, and his eyes go wide like he’s not sure what to do with an insane blonde woman in a professional suit, and I check him with the full weight of my cupcakes behind me. He goes reeling off to the side long enough for me to dash behind the podium and yell into the microphone, “Stop!”
And you’d think it would take more than one “Stop!” to quiet this room down so I could… you know, gather my thoughts and figure out what the hell I’m doing.
But it doesn’t.
Because that’s how my day is going.
“Stop,” I say again, only much softer now because the room has gone quiet. Myrtle and the goons have gone still up at the top of the aisle. Pierce is off to my right, in mid-escape. And Andrew… Andrew is staring at me with a very smug look on his face.
Fucker.
“Eden?” asks Pierce. Then he looks at Andrew and mumbles, “It is Eden, right?”
“Yes, it’s fucking Eden,” I say, annoyed. “Eden Presley. And Myrtle is not the Sexpert,” I say now. Loudly. Calmly. Confidently. “I am.”
