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“After you,” Clifford says, motioning to the empty office.
I sigh so loud everyone in the store probably hears, crossing my arms as I shuffle into the office, sitting in the chair behind the desk.
Clifford closes the door.
He doesn’t sit.
Instead, he towers over me, watching, like he’s sizing me up, before setting a paper on the desk in front of me. “Sign it.”
Confidentiality Agreement.
“I’ve already signed one.”
“This is an updated version. He was a ‘nobody’ when you signed. Expectations are different when dealing with a celebrity.”
“Does that mean the one I signed is no longer valid?”
He smiles tersely.
I take that as a disgruntled ‘yes’.
“I should’ve updated yours years ago, but I honestly didn’t see the need. I didn’t anticipate you becoming a problem again.”
“A problem… is that what I am?”
“Maybe complication is a better word for you, because yes, you complicate things. You did back then, and you do even more so now. So sign it, Miss Garfield. Get it over with.”
I read through the agreement, to see what’s so different. It’s no longer about protecting his privacy and preserving his reputation. Now it’s all about protecting his right to monetize the information.
His name has value. His story is worth money. Tabloids would pay quite a bit for it. No longer a person, he became a brand, trading his privacy for notoriety when he sold his soul to the devil.
And this little paper says I can’t whisper a word of what I know because doing so is like stealing his property and pawning it off as my own.
“Does he know about these?” I ask, curious, because I can’t fathom Jonathan being okay with his existence being equated to a thing, like he’s a moneymaking puppet and not a human.
“He’s aware,” Clifford says. “His lawyer has enforced a few on his behalf.”
Arbitration, it says, meaning there’s no court, just a snappy judgment, the settlement kept private.
“Okay, but has he ever read it?”
Clifford doesn’t answer that, instead saying, “I hope you know this isn’t personal.”
“Of course it is,” I say. “It’s always been personal. Otherwise, you would’ve made Serena Markson sign one of these.”
“I make everyone sign them.”
“Well, a lot of good that did, huh? Are you going to take her to arbitration for sending the tabloids to my father's front door?”
He stares at me.
I can feel his gaze.
I’m tired of people staring.
“Why are you so sure it’s Serena?” he asks. “Could it be because you’re trained to blame the other woman?”
“There is no other woman,” I say, the way he worded that ruffling my feathers, so to speak. He’s trying to get under my skin, and ugh, it’s working. “He told me they’re just friends.”
“And what are you and him?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I haven’t the faintest idea what to say. He’s the father of my daughter. He’s the man who sleeps beside me, who makes love to me, who swears he still loves me, but I’m not sure what all that adds up to.
“Johnny’s talented,” Cliff says, my silence enticing him to continue his little lecture. “But this business is ruthless, and it takes more than talent to get ahead. I work hard to keep him on top. He’s not going to fade into obscurity on my watch. So again, this is nothing personal. I’m doing what’s necessary to ensure he never again becomes a ‘nobody’.”
There’s so much I want to say right now. He pulls out a pen, holding it out to me, but I ignore it. Instead, I crumple up the paper and shove the chair back to stand, saying, “The thing is, Mr. Caldwell, Jonathan has never been a nobody. I stand by what I told you years ago. He’s too damn good for you.”
I leave the office, making it a few steps into the store before I hear loud voices. Glancing at the registers, I see Bethany.
Standing beside her is Serena Markson.
“Awesome,” I mutter.
Just what I need.
The pair take selfies like they’re long-lost friends, and Bethany gushes over her as she signs autographs. Clifford steps out of the office behind me, clearing his throat, getting Serena’s attention.
“Cliff, where have you been?” Serena asks, approaching the customer service desk.
“Taking care of a problem,” he says. “We can go now.”
I try to slip past them, try to go around them, wanting nothing more than to exit stage left before this gets ugly, but Serena notices my presence.
“Kennedy,” she says, reading my nametag. “The Kennedy? You look different.”
“Different,” I say, wondering what she means by that, because it’s not sounding like a compliment.
“From the other night,” she says. “With Johnny, you were all dolled up, wearing a dress? I almost didn’t realize it was you. You always look so different in your little work uniform.”
Yeah, definitely not a compliment.
Even in a grocery store, she looks like she’s prepared for a photo shoot, not a hair on her head out of place.
