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“Oliver,” I whisper.
“Oh my god.” The sound of her hand slapping against her mouth ricochets through the phone.
“It’s not about me. It’s about him. They’re trying to bring down Oliver.”
“You have Oliver Paxman at the beach house?”
“Yeah,” I say. “But who is he?”
“Oh my god,” Grace repeats, and I want to scream at her to stop with the gasping and just tell me what she knows. “We just found out yesterday. Oliver Paxman is the new owner of the magazine. He inherited it from Gregory Paxman, his uncle.
I knew Gregory passed away, but his will hadn’t been made public. When I saw Oliver’s surname on his form, I thought it was a coincidence. Paxman isn’t such a rare name that I’d assume a relationship, especially under the circumstances.
“Oliver’s the owner?” I can still feel his hands on my body, the slide of his finger over my clit. The whisper of his voice in my ear telling me what a good girl I am, watching as man after man shoved their cocks inside me.
Images and conversations flash through my mind and all the times he was hesitant and uncomfortably elusive. I thought it was about respect, him feeling some level of responsibility because he was a little older, but now I know better.
He knew he held a position of authority and power over me, but he still went along with Theron’s proposal.
My free hand drifts to gather the fabric of my pajama top closer around my neck, feeling the humiliation and exposure like a rush of ice-cold liquid through every part of my body.
How could Oliver do this to me?
He encouraged me to push myself and to believe in myself. He made me think that I can be what I want to be and take the leap I’ve been putting off for so long. And all the while, he knew that I work for his company.
He knew that sleeping with me would put me in an untenable position.
There’s no way I can go back to work. There’s no way anyone at Fine Line will take me seriously. This is it for me. No job. No career. A lifetime of effort wasted over one sexual experience.
What felt so good, so all consumingly perfect, is now tainted beyond repair.
“What am I going to do?” I ask Grace, who’s still quietly reading the coverage I can no longer face.
“You need to leave that house,” she says. “Get out of there. Don’t wait until the morning. No long goodbyes. Who knows who is behind these pictures, Allie. Don’t put yourself at any more risk.”
“Now?” I whisper. The room is all shadows, and my mind is a swirling mess of panic, but I’m confident all my possessions are in my room, which should make packing easier. but even so, gathering everything in the middle of the night, and escaping this house won’t be easy.
“Now, honey. Just do it. Call me when you’re in the car.”
I throw the sheet from over my body and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. “Okay.”
Grace hangs up, and I stare at the phone for another couple of seconds. I want to open the images again and read more, but I’m too scared. If I do, it’ll become more real and the numbness currently compressing my insides will crack open, revealing the bloody core of my shame and disappointment.
Oh god. I thought I had feelings for these men. I thought…well, I don’t know what I thought. Stupid woman with ideas that don’t make any sense. What kind of idiot would fantasize that they could be the center of the lives of ten men? Why the hell would they want to revolve around me? I’m not thefrickin’ sun.
I clasp my hands over my face, the heat of my embarrassment like an inferno against my palms.
What am I going to do?
My parents will see those images. They’re linked to me on social media. Who knows how many times those images have been shared? There’s no hiding what I’ve done.
Grace’s voice rings out in my mind. I need to get out of here before I come face to face with the reality of what comes next. My little apartment is the only place I’ll feel safe. I can hide away until…well, it’s not going to blow over. I’ll have to face it all at some point. But not now.
Now, all I can do is run.
Grabbing my suitcase, I start to empty the closet and drawers, stuffing things in with only a hasty fold. My toiletries are in disarray in the bathroom, and I have to pick up each item and deposit it into bags as quietly as I can. My work stuff is easy to pack, but then I’m faced with the gathering of purple dildos still braced together on my nightstand. What the hell am I going to do with them?
Take them with me? They’re evidence of what we’ve been doing here. Leaving them behind isn't an option. It takes me ages to force the suitcase shut and move the zip tooth by tooth. Then I realize that I'm still in my pajamas, and I can’t face the prospect of undoing it again. I slide my beach shoes onto my feet, put my laptop bag over my shoulder, and open the door into the hallway.
