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Friends with some of New York’s crème de lá crème such as the wife of the notorious St. Alban’s prince, Connor d’Avington, and the wife of billionaire Apollo Kane, it seems that Miss Fiona will stop at nothing to achieve the same thing her friends have: a high-status marriage.
I feel like killing someone right now. Or crying. I’m not sure which. Feeling lightheaded, I place the newspaper back on the rack and start walking back home. People are staring at me in the same way they used to do when I started dating Danny, but now… Now it’s different. New York feels hostile. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it seems that when people look at me, they’re not smiling.
There she goes, that gold digger, I can almost hear them think. And maybe it’s true. Maybe I let myself be swooned by the media because I wanted to be something I’m not. I mean, look at all my friends… They've all found their Prince Charming, and they’re living in mansions and palaces. And I’m just fighting trying to survive my internship while trying to scrape enough money to pay the rent of the apartment I share with Becca.
Maybe my romance with Danny was just an illusion. And maybe the newspapers are right too; maybe I’m hindering him, distracting him while he should be focusing on the playoffs. God, I feel so worthless right now.
I start walking faster, desperate to get home as soon as I can. I think I’ll just sit down in front of the TV, put on some Grey’s Anatomy and forget about the whole world while drowning in ice cream. Sure, go right ahead and add walking cliché to the horrible list of things people are calling me. See if I care.
I’m so distracted that I don’t even notice there’s someone blocking the way to my building, so I just bump against him.
“Sorry,” I cry out, taking a step back and realizing that the person I bumped against is Danny himself. My heart sinks inside my chest; after yesterday’s fight, what other reason is there for him to drive here? He’s breaking up with me, oh God. This day is quickly going downhill.
“Fiona,” he says, his eyes locked on mine, and a sad smile on his lips. “I had to see you.”
Before I can let him break up with me, I just take one step forward and wrap my arms around him. I press my face against his chest, closing my eyes as I feel the tears making their way to my eyes.
“I should've listened to you,” I whisper, making one tremendous effort to choke down a violent sob. “I’m so sorry… I really am. I let the press come between us and now… I’m sorry, Danny.”
He just holds me without saying a word, placing one hand on the back of my neck and holding me against his chest. I try not to cry, but it’s getting harder; just thinking that this might be the last time he holds me against him hurts too much.
“I let myself be seduced by the fame… I know. I should've listened to you,” I say, almost desperate. Now that he’s here, I know the truth; I was a fool, yes, but I love him. And not because he’s rich or famous, but just because of the kind of man he is.
I don’t want to lose him.
“Fiona,” he whispers my name, and I grit my teeth as I imagine what his next words are going to be: it’s all over. I can already hear them echoing inside of my head. “It’ll be alright. I promise you.” He pulls back from me and I just blink my eyes, not sure if I heard right.
“What… do you mean?”
“Make sure you’re up tomorrow morning. And turn on your TV,” he tells me, leaning into me and kissing the corner of my mouth. I just stand there like an idiot, and he smiles and walks to his car. I watch him get in without a word and, as he drives away, his words make my heart flutter with hope.
It’ll be alright. I promise.
38
Danny
I stroll inside the Nailers’ conference room with my head held high, and the whole room falls silent as I walk up to the microphone. All eyes are on me right now, and every single person inside the room is expecting me to drop a bomb. They’re right, I’m about to do that, but it’s not the kind of bomb they’re expecting.
I look around, completely in silence, and it doesn’t take long for the room to erupt with questions.
“Is it all over between you and Fiona?”
“Are you retiring?”
I don’t know what kind of drugs these people are taking, but it must be the good stuff. Retiring—what the
actual fuck?
“Everyone, shut the fuck up,” I say into the mic, and they all fall silent at once, as if I’ve suddenly turned into Satan himself. Good, I want them to be afraid, because right now I’m fucking pissed.
“As you all know, I’m in a relationship with a woman by the name of Fiona Barnett,” I start, and they all seem to lean forward in expectation as I drop her name. “I don’t know the reason why—nor do I care—but it seems that all of you decided to gang up on her. She’s the best person I know, and you’ve decided to ruin her life just because you might get a spike in audiences and a raise. Well, that stops this moment. As of now, Fiona is off limits.” I let the words hang heavily in the air, allowing them to sink in before I continue. “If you've got a problem, you can take it up with me. If you insist on going after Fiona, I can promise you this: you’re going to have a problem. A serious one.”
They all stare at me with wide eyes, afraid to even make a question. So much for their bravery and smugness; now that they’re standing right in front of me, they don’t dare defy me.
“One more thing, since you’ve all turned into football experts overnight and decided that my career was going downhill, I have one more promise to make: I’m going to win this year’s Super Bowl. That trophy is mine already; the game is only going to be a formality. Now, excuse me, I have to go and meet the woman I love.”
With that, I just walk past the dumbfounded press and make my way out of the conference room. My shoes click across the floor, and the silence is so deep you could hear a pin drop. Yeah, I think these assholes learned their place, once and for all.
