Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
CHARLOTTE
“Here,” I challenge. Again.
“Yes, fine. Here ,” he mutters and looks over his shoulder. A group of people are approaching us.
Approaching him.
His shoulders relax, and his mouth softens. The furrow between his eyebrows smooths out, but his gaze sharpens.
He looks powerful and casual all at once.
The all-American CEO, with his thick hair and square jaw.
And I realize that I don’t know where to place him. It’s easy, when I’m sparring with him and his eyes on mine, to forget that he is the one who runs the company that produces exploitative reality TV.
That Titan Media made millions, and I had my life ruined.
But he isn’t innocent. He runs the company and may have known about his father’s fraudulence, if what I read in some of the articles is true.
He’s also my ticket to a year-long contract with my editor to write a non-fiction book of my own. So really, Aiden could be good or bad.
Doesn’t matter.
Even if I can’t figure out why he agreed to the memoir if he’s going to hinder its progress. There’s being hesitant, even nervous, and then there’s being obstinate. And Aiden is falling into the latter camp.
I follow at Aiden’s side for the next half an hour. People talk to him, ask him questions, exchange business cards. He navigates all of it with the casual ease of someone who has done it many times before.
No one else asks about his father or his family.
And there are definitely some individuals who don’t approach him. I notice a group of them, standing off to the side, looking out of the corners of their eyes.
I want to take notes.
But if there’s one thing that would be out of place in this fancy place, it’s that. Whipping out a notebook and a pen would be quite indiscreet. But I know I won’t forget this. Not everyone has accepted Aiden after what his father did.
After all, in the circles of the rich and truly wealthy, is there a more hated crime than defrauding shareholders? His father had taken a sledgehammer to people’s fortunes, and people aren’t quick to forget the dents.
There’s the sound of a bell ringing, like we’re about to enter an opera or a theater. Aiden’s hand lands on my lower back again. It’s the second time he has put it there, and I hate how aware I am of the faint touch.
“If you’ll excuse us,” he says smoothly to the couple we’re talking to.
He leads us toward the front row of chairs by the stage.
“You’re about to speak,” I say. “Right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have notes?”
“No,” he says. “I’m going to wing it.”
“Really?”
“Your confidence is inspiring,” he says dryly.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply… You’re probably a great public speaker.”
“Oh, the flattery. It’s too much,” he drawls.
“I don’t think you need flattery,” I say with a smile. “You have a driver, two assistants, and an entire building filled with employees.”
“Don’t sound so jealous, Chaos.”
That makes me blink. “I’m not jealous of your life.”
We reach our chairs, and he motions for me to take a seat. He sits down beside me with a glass of champagne still in his hand, eyes on the man waiting on the stage for people to simmer down.
“Well, then I need to step it up as a memoir subject,” he says. His profile is strong, his mouth quirked. “You need to do what I do, right? How about we sky jump tomorrow?”
“Aiden,” I protest.
“Afraid of heights? That’s too bad, Chaos. Who knows what deep, dark secrets I might spill while I’m airborne and hurtling toward the ground.”
“Probably not a single one,” I say. “How about a simple, quiet lunch where you actually answer my questions?”
“I’ve answered all of your questions.”
My hand reaches out, gripping his wrist through the fabric. “You’ve answered none, Aiden. None.”
He blows out a breath, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re too pretty to be this damn inconvenient.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“I know you have questions. But you’re not getting access to any of my family members, and not to my friends, either. Possibly to my staff, but I’m still undecided.” A hush falls over the crowd, but he’s still talking, his voice deep and low. “It’s nothing personal, Chaos.”
“Nothing personal ,” I repeat in a hiss. “This is my job! How else am I supposed to take it?”
“You just said it. It’s a job,” he says. “Just do yours.”
“I’m trying, but you are my job.” My hand tightens around his wrist. “You’re saying that you?—”
“Aiden Hartman!” a loud voice says. It sounds strained. “Do we have him in the audience?”
I release Aiden’s arm immediately.
He curses under his breath—a tiny, muttered thing that only I hear. Then he stands and gives a wave out to the gathered crowd, a wide smile on his face. Takes the stairs to the stage with brisk steps and accepts the microphone from the host.
Aiden gives the audience a moment of silence before he speaks. There’s a large arch of flowers behind him, along the charity’s logo. “Sorry about that, folks. My beautiful date is more than a little distracting.”
I glare at him. He really isn’t planning on helping me, not even a little bit. And he doesn’t even have the courtesy to tell me why.
Irritation is a firebrand beneath my skin.
Why did he invite me here tonight, then? Does he find it fun to toy with me? Am I nothing but entertainment?
I was hired to do a job, and he’s making it impossible for me to do it.
Aiden waits a second for the chuckles to die down, one hand gripping the mic and the other braced on the podium. He looks relaxed, broad-shouldered, and totally at home up on that stage.
Unbothered by me, by our argument.
Maybe this is all just sport to him. Like asking for my number and then never calling. Like running a giant media conglomerate that makes millions on other people’s drama.
He starts talking, but his husky voice just washes over me. I can’t make out his words. Something about philanthropy and the importance of Los Angeles coming together as a community, and empty platitudes that say nothing about who he actually is.
Just like he’s done with me.
I take a deep breath, and then another, forcing down the irritation. Searching for the calm and professionalism that have been mine for years. Regardless of how challenging the subject is.
But I can’t find it.
It’s out of reach.
I twist, turning to look for the nearest restroom, and that’s when I feel it. A sharp rip, and then the tight grip of fabric around my chest loosens.
Falls.
I wrap my arms around myself just in time and feel the bare skin on my side where the zipper has come undone.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I glance around at the darkened room, but no one is looking at me. They’re focused on Aiden up on stage.
I find the zipper and try to wriggle it about. It doesn’t work. I need better lighting and I need to turn the dress around. I also need to not be in a room with two hundred and fifty of Los Angeles’s elite where I risk showing them my A-cups.
I glance at the stage again and then slip out of my chair. I duck to stay out of sight, my arms still wrapped tightly around my chest and the traitorous green fabric.
As quickly and quietly as I can, I hurry in the direction of the back room, the one where we came from. I pass a few loitering waiters and damn it, where’s the bathroom?
It takes me almost a minute to find it by the coat check alcove. I feel too hot and just a bit sweaty. Clutching my small bag in hand and the two sides of my dress that refuse to stick together.
Why did I think strapless was a good idea? And why did I think it was a bright notion to skip the bulky strapless bra?
Built-in corset dress, sure. Only works if the damn thing stays up.
Quick, hard steps follow behind me. “You’re leaving?” Aiden asks, his voice rough.
I falter next to the startled coat check clerk and turn to meet Aiden’s narrowed eyes. My anger flares to life when faced with his.
“So what if I am? It’s not like you’ll give me any answers if I stay.”
His eyes burn. “Walking off during my speech is a bit much though, don’t you think?”
“Your ego really is that fragile,” I spit back.
“If my ego was fragile,” he says, “don’t you think I’d want you to write a puff piece like the memoir you did for William?”
“That wasn’t a puff piece,” I tell him, and take a step back. My hip bumps into the coat check counter. It’s also a lie. William’s book was a total puff piece, and I hated working with him.
“Sure it wasn’t,” Aiden says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I read your memoir about the Olympic swimmer. That’s the kind of writing you want to do, Chaos. Intimate and emotional.”
My eyes widen. “You’ve read it?”
“You recommended I do.”
“Yes, but I didn’t think you would.”
“I am literate, you know, despite what you seem to think about me and my ego, or my ability to do things for myself.” His voice is frustrated. “If you’re going to leave in the middle of the night, at least tell me about it.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I wasn’t leaving,” I say. My arms are still tightly wrapped around me, but all it takes is a loose finger and my dress will come undone. “ I don’t just leave when things get tough.”
The implication is there. That he does.
His eyes narrow again. “Neither do I. And why are you holding yourself like you’ve been hurt?”
“I’m not hurt.”
“Sure you’re not.” A frown mars his lips, and he inspects my chest with terrifying scrutiny. “What… Fucking hell, Chaos, your dress is falling off.”
“I know that,” I hiss, “which is why I left. I’m trying to fix it but it’s not going great.”
He looks over his shoulder, at the large room we just departed. We’re standing right by the exit, and there’s a good chance people will soon pass through here again.
He looks at the coat check clerk. “We just need a moment,” he says with complete confidence. “Thank you.”
Dropping his hand on my lower back again, Aiden walks us behind the counter and in between the mostly-empty rows of hangers. It’s warm enough that few people brought anything to check.
“I’ll help you fix it,” he says in a dark voice, “and you’re welcome to keep ranting at me while I do.”