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Nerves singing, I mashed the elevator button and waited for it to descend.
People passed me. No one looked me in the eye. I felt my cheeks begin to burn.
The elevator dinged and I leaped inside it, pushing the button for the top floor. Outside the door, a small gaggle of businesspeople waited, each and every one looking anywhere but at me.
There's room, I wanted to say, but I didn't. The doors closed with a hiss and I ascended.
I forced myself
to breath slowly and deeply. Anton would know what to do. Anton knew everything there was to know about being a rich and famous schmuck targeted by paparazzi.
So why didn't he think twice about fucking me where we could be photographed? Come to think of it, why didn't I think twice about it?
But I already knew the answer. I had thought about it. I'd thought about it each time it happened, but in the heat of the moment, tangled and twisted up with arousal, I hadn't been able to voice my concerns. I'd only had one thing on my mind: Anton.
The elevator slowed to a stop and I exited. Arthur, Anton's personal assistant, sat at his desk. He met my eyes and smiled. Was it my imagination, or was that smile a little false, a little plastic?
"He's in his office, Mrs. Waters," Arthur told me. "Go on in."
Licking my lips, I nodded and skirted around him, entering one of the doors leading to the small, spare foyer. My hands shook as I opened the door to Anton's office.
Anton sat at his desk , serenely typing away at his computer. He glanced up as I edged my way in.
"Hey," I said.
He gave me his signature faint smile. "Is there something I can do for you?" he asked me. "I missed out on a lot of work this morning."
I winced. I knew my mother's insistence on his attendance at the wedding planning was definitely eating into his time, but he acquiesced to her demands out of... I guess out of concern for me. Funny, I'd been writing it off as through the goodness of his heart, but I realized, as he stared at me from the tranquility of his office—full of zen fountains and running water—that he was much happier here, working. He probably wouldn't endure my mother out of some misplaced sense of kindness. I frowned as I stared at him.
"Felicia?" he said.
I started. "Um." Opening my purse, I dug the tabloids out of the depths. "I have something you should probably look at."
He raised a brow, but beckoned me closer. I walked the length of the room—an endless length, it seemed like—and presented the tabloids to him with trembling hands.
What was he going to think? Was he going to somehow blame me for this? Would this negatively impact his business? I worried my lip between my teeth as he laid the tabloids down on the desk and studied them. Then he looked back to me.
"Your tits look amazing," he said.
Fucking wow. "That's it?" I asked him. "That's all you have to say?"
An expression of genuine surprise crossed his face. "What do you want me to say?" he asked.
I threw my hands in the air. "I don't know!" I cried. "Something! Anything!"
"I did say something," he told me. "I said your tits look amazing."
Never before in my life had I wanted to slap someone more. "And that's all you have to say about it?"
He squinted down at the terrible photos of us in our private moments. "I wish they'd got a shot of my ass," he said. "It's pretty great, too."
Exasperated, I stamped my foot. "Really?"
"Well, there's nothing else to really do about it other than make the best of it," he said.
I was feeling less and less good about this with each thing that fell out of his mouth. "I thought you might want to sue them or... or something."
"Why would I do that?" he asked me. "This is free publicity. I'll be on the receiving end of many back-slaps the next time I attend a business function."
