45. Jules
CHAPTER 45
Jules
What the hell is going on? Has everyone lost their minds tonight? If this guy thinks he can manhandle me at the Excellence Gala, he’s in for a nasty surprise—and a swift kick to the balls.
I jerk my arm back, ready to let him have it, but he raises his hands, sloshing his drink in the process, eyes wide with panic. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, fuck ?—”
The alarm in his voice makes me pause. And I can’t just walk away. He knows who I am, heads and tails of my Spenser/Sun identity crisis, and I need to know how.
My voice drops to just above a whisper. “Why did you call me Sydney Sun?”
He blinks, genuinely confused. “Because that’s who you are.” When I glare, waiting for more, he sighs and adds, “I do own a global media conglomerate. People talk. Especially the ones from our latest acquisition, the Manhattan Herald .”
The weight of his words sink in.
He lets out a long, weary breath, and by the heavy bags under his eyes, it’s clear he’s about to offload a burden that’s been wearing him down. “Look, I’m in a twelve-step program.” His voice wavers, cracking under the pressure. “And I’m botching this all to hell, but I’m trying to apologize.”
My eyes immediately dart to the glass he’s clutching like a lifeline.
He follows my eyes, lifting the glass with a faint, self-deprecating smile. “Gin and tonic. Sans the gin. I keep the lime in there so people stop trying to buy me drinks.” He takes a sip, grimacing. “Tastes like piss, by the way.”
“Is that why I should’ve fucked you when I had the chance ?” I scoff, crossing my arms.
He winces, the smirk wiped clean off his face. “That was...a crude attempt at humor. I don’t usually have to try. People kiss my ass, laugh at my jokes, all without me lifting a finger. Except for you...”
His words trail off, and realization hits me like a truck. This isn’t about power or manipulation. There’s no game here, no strategy. It’s raw, messy, unpolished remorse—laid bare.
Straightening his suit, he clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“You should be,” I quip back, a little sharper than intended. But then I soften. “And you’re forgiven.” I step closer, lowering my voice. “And you’ve got this. One day at a time .”
His eyes search mine. “You know about addiction?”
I nod, my throat tightening. “A little. My family thinks I’m oblivious, that I don’t know my sister’s an addict. She’ll do anything for a hit. We call her Hurricane Angi because she’ll damn near destroy everything and everyone to get what she needs. I’ve volunteered with NA for years.”
Slowly, he nods, a flicker of understanding crossing his face. “I’m so desperate for a drink right now that if you spilled your glass, it’d take everything in me not to lick it off your shoes.”
“If you ever need someone to talk to...”
He arches an eyebrow. “On or off the record, Ms. Sun?”
“Off the record, definitely. Officially, I’m not Ms. Sun. The Herald kept my account and screwed me out of my name.”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Which articles were yours?”
“Just the first one.”
He nods, acknowledging the weight behind those words. “Business is business. And brutal. But that article was good. You’ve got real talent. I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement if we can persuade you to come back.”
I shrug, noncommittal at best. “I’m not sure the Herald is my passion anymore. I’m more of a hometown news girl at heart. Maybe I’ll stick to ghostwriting. Or try freelancing.”
“Here.” He hands me his card, his expression unreadable.
It’s not the same card he gave me before. No Mercer Media on it. “Excelsior Media?”
“My new global conglomerate. Twenty-three countries and counting. I’m shifting my focus international.” His smile lifts, just barely. “The good thing about sobriety—it clears the head. Bigger margins. Fewer sewer rats.”
He gestures subtly toward Wyld Richards, who’s got his arm draped around Roxie’s waist. Good to know I’m not the only one who thinks the guy is a walking roach turd.
He takes another sip, wincing. “ Bleh . I need to take off. It’s not easy, staring at Roxana Voss and being damn near ready to French kiss that vampire just for a taste of her martini.”
We both laugh, his wink adding a dash of charm before he heads out, vanishing across a sea of people just as the announcer’s voice booms through the speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. Presenting our first award—the Trailblazer Award for Journalism —is Mr. Brian Bishop, Manhattan’s own Bachelor of the Year. And with him, the recipient of this prestigious honor...Ms. Sydney Sun.”
Wait—what the hell?