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I’m walking right into a trap.
The thought flies into my mind to turn around and head back home, but this is a Monday. I have to go into the office and I’m not going to chicken out of the banquet of meetings scheduled for today because of a few over-ambitious anchors.
Stepping out of my car, I slip my backpack onto my shoulders and walk briskly toward the entrance. Maybe if I walk fast enough, they’ll see that I’m in no mood for their nonsense.
One can only hope.
I’ve barely taken five steps before a dozen of them shove long fluffy microphones into my face at the same time.
“Mr. Bridges, can you tell us of any past dealings with Mr. Garfield Hayes?”
“Are you filing a counter-lawsuit against Hayes?”
“They say your legal team is backing down. Is this true?”
“Can we get an insight into…”
I try to shut my mind down as I’m barraged with a million questions at once, and sadly, my mind is picking up and processing each one. At the same time.
How do these people come up with such nonsense ideas?
Getting close to the entrance, I spot the security officers advancing to shield me as the reporters begin to back away.
I’m almost at the door when one particular question catches my attention.
“Mr. Bridges, can you tell us why your father’s company, Bridges, Inc. has been unwaveringly silent on this matter since it unfolded? Why aren’t they offering any form of visible support considering their influence?”
It takes every ounce of will in my body to keep walking.
If I show any sudden reactions to that question, these demons will read all kinds of meanings into it.
Finally entering the quiet general office area, the stinging pang of hurt spreads through my body.
I genuinely don’t understand why Bridges, Inc. is yet to release a formal statement on the matter. I don’t know what Roscoe signed off on, but all their involvement has been low-key, with the legal team still drawing up a defense against Hayes’ lawyers. While I’m grateful for the intervention, I just wish they would act like any other normal parent organization and use their influence for good.
Well, that’s a worry for another hour.
These days, I’m often more tired than I’ve ever been in my life, and that’s saying something.
We’re still running damage control campaigns and I actually started to believe we were making a little progress. But every time it seems like we’ve managed to push back a little, someone adds a little more fuel to the fire and the press goes agog with more fake news.
The mental stress is rewiring my bodily functions. I’m not sleeping at all, I’m barely eating, and I’m exhausted all the time. I need a huge break in this case before the break happens within me.
Walking into my office, Wade is behind me, closing the door as he comes in.
“What’s up, Champ? Good morning,” I greet him first, signing out of my depressed mood.
“Good morning, Boss. How’s it going?”
Wade’s lips are pressed into a thin line, and I can tell that this isn’t a courtesy call.
“Spill, Wade. What’s up?”
He hesitates for the briefest moment before speaking up.
“Boss, last week was a bit of a dramatic one out here. You were… you know… gone most of the time.” Wade is fishing for polite words and honestly, I don’t need his policing right now.
“We had meetings nearly every day of last week and you only attended two. It’s kind of a bad look on you right now,” Wade says, nodding unnecessarily as he mentions every word.
