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"Oh, my god, Zara, how are you holding up?" Solene’s face wears an expression of absolute horror mixed with sympathy. She’s the media darling, the upcoming music superstar. Of all my friends, she’s the one most likely to understand what it means to be in the eye of a media shitstorm.
"Umm, I’m not sure, actually." I roll my shoulders, where a permanent ache seems to have taken up residence. "I’ve only ever been on the other side of the scandal. I’m the fixer. I’m not the one who's supposed to be in the eye of the storm."
I glance out the window of my apartment, where I’ve been holed up the last forty-eight hours. The crowd of paparazzi has only grown since that showdown I had with Hunter. After which, he left without making a statement, which only sent the journalists into a tizzy.
The speculation about our relationship has grown in an exponential fashion. From online blogs and social media, to tabloids, to the broadsheet newspapers, and today, the headlines of the leading financial daily. Everyone is asking if we’re together, and if so, what we have to hide since we haven’t bothered to address the rumors. One of them asked if I was pregnant. I read that article, then promptly rushed to the bathroom and got sick.
After that, I stopped checking the internet for the latest developments on the story. Instead, I have my team keeping track of the coverage. Abby keeps me up to date, shielding me from the details, but sharing highlights as they unfold, without going into the gory parts. She’s only been on the job for a few days, but she’s a fast learner. Kate and the rest of my team have warned me that every minute I delay only adds fuel to the conjecture around our relationship. As if I don’t know that. It’s PR 101 to address the postulations around a theory head on, in order to kill them. If you shut your ears to it and ignore the rumors, they rarely go away. More often than not, they take on a life of their own, which will snowball to affect other areas of our lives. As is happening to Hunter.
The speculation is affecting his ratings, as evidenced in the latest polls. His approval has dropped by five points since the picture of our being together broke. Of course, you could argue that he brought it down on himself. And yet… He did it because he wanted me enough to risk everything. He risked my ire, risked his career, risked so much… Just so he could coerce me into marrying him. Of course, he could have just asked… But when he did, I refused to give him an answer. I still haven’t given him an answer. I can’t give him an answer, not when there’s so much unanswered in my own life.
I glance around my apartment. I need to get out of here. Need to go to the one place where I’ll find some peace of mind so I can think. Which means, I need to leave without drawing the attention of the paps. I need a diversion.
I pick up my phone and make a few calls.
* * *
"You sure about this?" Isla asks.
"It’ll work, won’t it?" Abby shuffles her feet nervously.
Only Kate seems completely unruffled by what I proposed. The woman’s cool in the face of pressure. Almost as collected as I normally am—when it’s a situation that does not have me at the center of it. It’s so much easier to take stock of a crisis when you’re not the one in the eye of the storm. I’ll never underestimate the courage of my clients after this.
I just need perspective on the situation. A chance to get my bearings and feel myself again, and then it will be fine. I trust myself to make the right decision. I simply need a little space to get to that point.
"It will work." I glance between them. "All you have to do is hold them off long enough for me and Isla to slip out the back."
"You sure you want to risk going, today of all days, when there’s a good chance you’ll be followed?" Isla interjects.
"I need to go there. I need to be there… Just for a little while."
"Okay." She nods.
"Okay." I blow out a breath, then turn to face Abby and Kate. "You guys ready?"
* * *
In the end, it worked fine. Kate and Abby went out onto the steps of my apartment building and gave a statement—full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. Essentially, it was a holding pattern statement that gave the press some words to embellish but did not cast any light on the situation. Which they knew. And they knew we knew. And the more astute of them weren’t happy about it. But everyone went along with the charade, happy to have something with which to fill the pages and posts.
I pulled on a baseball hat and wore glasses, as well as the biggest pair of sweatpants—shudder—that Isla brought for me, along with a sweatshirt and trainers. It was a get-up very unlike what I’d normally wear. It did the trick, though, for we slipped by the lone, enterprising journo who was loitering around the backdoor exit to the building, but who let us pass without glancing. It was only when Isla pulled away in the car that I noticed him give us a second glance, but by then, we were well on our way.
Now, I glance at the squat, gray building she’s stopped in front of. The sign on the gate said Presley Academy.
"You good?" she asks for the fifth time since we left home.
"I will be." I turn to her, then lean over and kiss her cheek. "Thanks, Isla."
"Anytime, babe." She shoots me a smile. "You sure you don’t want me to wait?"
I shake my head. "I’ll call for a ride home."
She scans my features. "So, this is it?"
I nod, then push the door open, and walk into the school.
"Hey Naz," I greet the man behind the reception counter.
"Hey, Zara. You made it!" He flashes me a huge smile.
