Chapter 61
CHAPTER 61
CHARLOTTE
I don’t leave my room until I know he’s definitely left for work the next morning. It’s well after eleven when I finally venture out and find the place deserted.
Walking down the elegantly decorated hallway, the decadently wide staircase, and into the spacious living room. His home has always felt too large for one person, too empty. It’s beautiful but a bit soulless. Like he doesn’t truly live here.
His family house in Malibu, the one he’d taken me to… that felt more like him.
Here, even with the mementos everywhere, ones that his sister must have left when she decorated, the space feels cold. I wrap my arms around myself and look at it all. The wine in his cellar. Years of vintage. The pictures on the giant bookcase by his living room couch.
Everything has changed. Everything will change.
Finally, when I can’t delay it any longer, I sit down at my computer and click open the manuscript. The one that I’ve temporarily named Titan, Rising .
I’ve written the title in thick, bold font on the first page. Below, the outline of the various chapters.
Seventy-five thousand words.
It’s as much about Titan Media as it is about Aiden. But the chapters about him had been my favorite to write. I spent the past few days rereading some of the chapters and revising the weaker ones. The document needs to go to Aiden before it goes to the Board or my editor.
When I’m done, it’s almost two. I send the entire manuscript to the closest printing house and let them know I’ll pick it up within the hour.
My phone rings while I’m on my way back, and connects to my car speakers via Bluetooth. It’s Eric.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Ms. Gray,” he says. There’s a long pause that’s unlike him. “There’s a picture of you and Mr. Hartman on the front page of Star Buzz .”
“What?”
“A picture of the two of you. I’m not sure where or when it was taken, but it’s unmistakably you. It has been connected to your… past.”
The words land like a ton of bricks. Directly onto my chest, weighing me down.
“There’s no mention of the memoir. Just that you two are now dating,” he says.
“Does… Aiden know?”
“Yes. We’re monitoring the situation. It was just published.”
My hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Thanks for telling me.” My voice sounds reedy and thin, and not like my own. I hang up and pull over into the first parking lot I spot in Westwood.
I type my name into the search bar of my phone with shaky hands. Charlotte Gray. The results are a few passing mentions of me as the ghostwriter of memoirs.
It was a pleasure to work with Charlotte…
All thanks to Charlotte…
I add Aiden’s name, and then, after a second of hesitation, change the surname on my search.
Charlotte Richards.
And things start pouring in.
I click on the first video that comes up. It takes me to a social media app. One of the many I’ve been avoiding.
The world crashes around me as I listen.
A woman on the screen. Cheerful, in a bright-blue blouse. She talks over the rolling footage of blonde me at that Mexico resort.
And then, she cuts to an image of me with Aiden. We’re walking out of the fancy restaurant. Our first date, where we later met a group of people who recognized me. The screen-me is looking up at Aiden.
It’s clearly me. And obviously him. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders.
The headline is what makes my heart stutter.
The Gamble’s Sugar Puff is now dating the billionaire owner of Titan Media, the production company responsible for the show.
The text below isn’t much better.
Aiden Hartman, the billionaire son of the now criminally convicted Alfred Hartman (yes, that one), seems to have found a girlfriend. And it’s not a supermodel or a European heiress.
Another picture. This time it’s me—crying, hysterical, standing in front of Blake by a pool. My mascara is smudged and my mouth is open. I know what picture-me is about to scream.
But I’m your little Sugar Puff.
Charlotte Richards made The Gamble a worldwide sensation. Spoken about at water coolers across the globe, Sugar Puff is responsible for the series’ unprecedented success. She’s kept a low profile since her time on the show, but now it seems like she’s not done with life in the spotlight.
My hands shake, holding the phone. Spotlight. I look around, but no one is paying me any attention. No one is staring or whispering to their friends.
Just in case, I pull my cap lower on my face.
The paranoia is the worst. It’s something I’ve worked hard to overcome, to get rid of the feeling that there are always eyes on me, always murmurings, always attention.
It’s lessened more and more with each passing year.
But this? Can I handle it starting again?
It won’t take long before this makes its way to my family. These sorts of things grow, get big on social media. Someone sees it and sends the post to someone else.
Didn’t you go to school with that girl?
In all of fifteen minutes, it could get forwarded to a family member or childhood friend back in Elmhurst.
Which means my parents will know everything in a few hours. Maybe in a day. But no longer than that.
Panic grips me with an icy hand. I pull out of the parking lot and start the drive up to Bel Air. But I go past Aiden’s house and continue on.
Aimlessly taking curve after curve.
My phone rings. I hear it but ignore it.
The memoir is a thick bunch of papers, all stuck inside a manila envelope. Lying on the passenger seat beside me. I need to deliver it before I can… before I can do anything.
My phone rings for the fifth time, and I look at the console to see who it is.
Esmé. My best friend since childhood.
I answer. “Hey.”
“I just saw it,” she says. There’s silence on the line, like there’s nothing more to say. And is there, really?
Is there anything else that needs to be said?
“I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” she says in her calm, collected voice, “but I’m here if you need me.”
The simple words make my throat squeeze shut. My eyes well up with tears, and I try my best to blink them away. But one escapes anyway, slides down my cheek.
“It’s all such a mess,” I whisper.
“Oh, Charlotte. I wish I could hug you,” she says, and that makes me cry harder. I don’t stop the car, don’t slow down. As I’ve done for years. Just keep moving.
“How did you find out?”
She hesitates for only a moment. “Tara saw it on social media and forwarded it to me. Some kind of video.”
Tara is her sister-in-law. It’s just like I expected. Friends sending links to friends—that invisible network that never fails to spread gossip around.
“I can’t believe this is happening again,” I say.
“Your parents,” she says softly. “Do they know?”
“I’m sure some helpful soul will inform them. They know I’m… I’m writing his memoir. But not about…”
“Ah. I’m sorry, Charlotte.”
There’s a brief pause, and I use it to wipe my cheek. There are too many emotions running through me, and I can’t parse them all out, can’t handle the speed or intensity.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “I mean, why did this happen? He runs Titan Media, Charlotte.”
And there it is. Even with the gentle tone in her voice, the judgment. You should have known better.
This is a dumb decision, Charlotte.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Charlotte—”
“Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you later.” I hang up and pull to a stop at a vacant cul-de-sac, fronted by high hedges. Hiding the million-dollar houses from view.
I open up the tabloid site again. The one that Eric had sent me. Ground zero.
It’s been updated.
Star Buzz News reached out to Aiden Hartman’s team for a comment. Mr. Harmann himself has told Star: “Ms. Charlotte Gray and I have no relationship beyond the professional. She is a fantastic writer, and I have every confidence in her skills for my memoir.”
My eyes skip over the middle words. No relationship beyond the professional.
No relationship beyond the professional.
No relationship beyond.
None.
He’s denying it.
The first punch is one of anger, and then my tears begin to flow. There’s no controlling them this time. At least I’m not sobbing. It’s a steady stream of emotions, leaking out of me. The way they always do when I can’t restrain them.
The headline is an embarrassment for him.
He’s made his opinion of reality stars loud and clear all too often. He doesn’t particularly respect his company’s production of dating shows, but he’s tolerated it because it pays the bills. Keeps advertisers happy. Because his personal feelings don’t matter—only the company does. Its survival. And his damn family name.
The one he so wanted to restore.
No relationship beyond the professional.
It didn’t take him long to state that. What had it been, an hour? And he’s already made his position crystal clear.
I glance at my watch. He’ll still be at work, but judging by his repeated calls, he’s trying to reach me. And soon, he’ll be checking at his own home.
I press my foot on the gas.