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A line of cars wrap around the block. Reporters and gawkers throng outside the premises. I’m desperately late and, despite my intentions to sneak in under the radar, reporters catch me in the basement parking lot.
Surrounded by journalists, I give Mosely an impatient look, to which he responds with an imperceptible ‘calm down’ gesture. My initial annoyance wanes. Showing my face and accepting a few interviewsisthe reason I agreed to attend the fashion show in the first place.
I oblige their screamed pleas for my attention and face the mikes that are so close to my face I can smell the spit and sweat of the last person who spoke into them.
“Mr. Sullivan, is it true that your acquisition of Cullen Tech was to negotiate a government contract?”
“No comment.”
“Mr. Sullivan, have you and Mr. Carmichael settled your dispute out of court?”
“All actions have consequences. Carmichael will face the legal ramifications of his choices.”
“Does that mean you’ll be suing him?”
“Next question.”
“Mr. Sullivan, do you admit to manipulating the free press?”
I point my eyes at the reporter who said that. A seedy little man with a comb-over and an ill-fitting tux.
“I can assure you that the only weapon anyone in my company fights with is the truth.”
“Don’t you think it’s strange the way positive articles about your rich friends buried any negative publications about you?”
My eyebrows twitch. I glance questioningly at Mosely.
He looks away.
Was there a tailored PR campaign? This is the first time I’m hearing about it. A dirty fight with Carmichael was not worth my time, so I instructed Mosely to handle it quietly. Dad showed me the beauty of being silent and waiting for the truth to be revealed. And my own experience taught me that empires as big as the one I’m running aren’t quick on their feet. I couldn’t afford to make careless decisions just to go after Carmichael.
From the shifty way Mosely’s acting, there’s something he didn’t tell me.
I square my shoulders and grind out. “Next question.”
Another round of shouting fills the air.
I try my best to answer every question that I can. Above me, music is thumping and I’m keenly aware of how much time I’m spending in the parking lot. I was originally against seeing Yaya and getting my heart ripped out all over again, but the longer the reporters take, the more I itch to head upstairs.
Mosely sees me checking my watch for the fifth time and his eyes meet mine.
I jut my chin at the door.
He nods and motions to the security team stationed at the exits. At once, the guards form a human barricade around me.
“Mr. Sullivan!”
“One more question!”
The reporters call out to me. Camera lights flash.
I lift a hand in goodbye and stalk into the elevator. Mosely leaves the security team to take care of the reporters and slips in with me just before the door shuts.
“What were they talking about?” I ask roughly. “Did you ask Alistair or Stinton to clean up our Carmichael mess?”
Mosely gulps. “No, sir.”
I want to interrogate him more, but that persistent red light flashes from my wrist. Dragging my gaze to the watch, I sigh. Why is Talia signaling me so desperately? Is she okay?
