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Silence again.
I shake my head, annoyed that I just said that out loud.
“Anyway, whatever. I don’t care anymore. I moved on years ago, but I just wanted you to know that.”
“I’m not proud of the way I handled that night, April,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, just listening to his deep voice. It brings back so many memories.
“I lost my temper,” he says softly. “I just. . . I couldn’t deal with it, and I needed you gone.”
“Is that your apology?”
He stays silent.
“Because calling someone a lying whore deserves an apology,” I say. “And I’ve never lied to you—not once—and you and I both know that I’m not a whore.”
“Why did you work there then?”
I feel my anger rising. “Because I walked in on my husband having sex with another woman, Sebastian!” I bark. “And I left him with nothing but the clothes on my back.” Angry tears well in my eyes. “And you have no fucking idea how it feels to be so broke that you can’t afford food and rent. So, don’t you fucking dare judge me, you entitled asshole. Why don’t you ask yourself why it’s okay for you to pay for sex? Why do you think girls work at those places, Sebastian? You think they’re there for your magical dick alone?”
“Calm down.”
“I will not calm down!” I cry. “It’s rich bastards like you who make girls like me feel cheap.” I shake my head. “Stick your pathetic apology up your ass.”
“April.”
I hit the end call button and jump out of bed with purpose, pacing back and forth. I’m too angry to lie still.
Fuck him and his judgement. He can go to Hell.
Sebastian Garcia is still an asshole.
Sebastian
“We got a problem,” Max says as he rushes into my office.
I glance up from my computer. “What now?”
“Theodore is a mess.”
I roll my eyes in disgust. I already know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth. The Prime Minister is an asshole. “Why?”
“He’s still high from last night. Just spilt his coffee all over his shirt and thinks it’s hilarious.”
“What the fuck?” I glance at my watch. “He’s supposed to be doing a press conference in half an hour.”
“I know. The press is setting up outside number 10 as we speak.”
“Fuck’s sake,” I hiss. “I’m sick of his shit. When the hell is he going to get over his midlife crisis and do some fucking work?”
Max drags his hand down his face. “His cocaine problem is seriously out of control.” He shrugs. “How long much longer can we cover for him?”
I scratch my head in frustration. “I don’t know.” I shuffle some papers. “He was reporting on the boarder restrictions, yes?” I ask.
“Yes, you wrote the speech for him last week. Looks like you’ll have to deliver it for him, too.”
“I don’t want to deal with the media. This is not what I am assigned to do.” I bring up the report on my computer.
“Nobody else can deliver to the media without it looking suspicious.”
“It is fucking suspicious.” I stand. “Let’s go. Where is he?”
“In the library. Marcela is looking after him in the tearoom.”
I march down the corridor and into the elevator. I take the lift up to the library and walk through to the tearoom to find Theodore spinning on his chair. He’s laughing like a child, obviously as high as a kite.
“Theo,” I say.
“Hey!” He laughs. “Garcia. Get a chair. Spin with me.”
“Where is Leona?”
“Who?”
Max and I exchange looks. This isn’t fucking good at all. “Leona. Your wife.”
“Who fucking cares?” He scoffs. “In Italy, spending my money, I expect.”
“Why don’t you go and join her? You need a vacation.”
“I’m having a holiday without my wife.” He tips the chair and falls spectacularly onto the floor.
Max and I scramble to pull him to his feet. “I’m calling Leona,” I say.
He dusts himself off. “She left me.” He stumbles back and side steps. “Said she doesn’t love me anymore.”
I exhale heavily and plant my hands on my hips. Fuck, this explains a lot.
I help him back into his seat and he tries to spin it again. I stop it with my hand. “Stop.”
“Come on.” He claps his hands and tries to stand again. “Let’s go. It’s Tuesday, and we’ve got a press conference.”
I push him back down into his chair. “You’re not going anywhere.” I crouch down so that we are at eye level. “Theo, listen to me. I’m booking you into a private facility. You need to go to rehab.”
“What?” he explodes. “I don’t need to go to fucking rehab, Garcia. What the hell are you talking about?”
“If the press gets hold of this, your career is going to come to abrupt end.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He growls. “You don’t control everything around here.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“Like fuck you are. You want my job.” He snatches his arm from my grip. “I don’t need your help.” He tilts and tips the chair, once again, and goes sprawling onto the floor.
