Chapter 45
Robert
It’s my name on the article. And I can’t even say that I didn’t fucking write it.
I did. Kind of, the bones at least. It’s got elements of notes I was keeping in my folder, my original draft, but other than that, it looks nothing like anything I’ve ever even thought about Rhiannon, let alone written.
It makes her look like a reckless distraction, a misfocused athlete, and worse still, a puppet in my story. The crass sensationalization screams Pete. That fucker.
Rhiannon called and called last night, but I couldn’t face answering the phone. She’s going to rip my balls off and make them into Christmas ornaments. Or worse, she’s going to cry, and it’s all my fault.
This time I didn’t even mean for my work to take over, and yet… I heave out a sigh. That’s exactly what happened.
The IT logs show my name. My login. My fucking timestamp. Pete’s clever like that—he waited until I’d left the file open, then copied and pasted it into the live CMS under my credentials. So even if I scream innocence, the evidence screams louder.
And what would it look like to the outside world? A journalist accusing a paper of fabricating a story? They’d bury me before the ink dried—even though it’s not my paper. Go big or go home, I guess. Pete isn’t one to rest on his laurels; he’s always clawing after the next big thing.
I’m so used to intentionally placing work at the top of my priority list, and now that it’s steamrolling my love life, I’m fucking pissed. And crushed. Is this how it’s always going to be? Have I made my own bed and now I need to just… lie in it?
So far this morning, Rhiannon’s been quiet, but I don’t give it long before she blows up my phone or turns up at the door.
I can’t believe this is happening. Sure, I had some rather scathing notes about her father in my document, but I’d given her the sanitized version, the bullet points. The notes I’ve written were never intended to get beyond my own fucking document. They certainly weren’t meant for the internet.
In this industry, truth doesn’t matter. Perception does. And perception says I sold out the woman I love for a byline.
Fuck.
I’d pace my living room, but stress makes my stump ache even more. The extra muscle tension in my body puts added pressure on Ghosty and can even give me muscle spasms.
Like right fucking now.
I’m going to kill that bastard Pete with my bare hands. I’ve worked in the media for long enough to know that trying to sue for, well, any reason—unless you’re a hugely famous person with no end to the pounds in your bank account—is futile.
I did it again. I hurt someone I cared about.
With one hand, I cover my face, and with the other, I massage my thigh, even the quiet sound of fabric rustling is grating against my last fucking nerve.
I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.
How could I have been so damn stupid? They had to have stolen it from the networked folder on my company computer.
Of course someone used my words against me.
I find my mobile and type out a scathing email to both Pete the Prick and my editor, despite the bright screen making my brain hurt.
I don’t care which one of them did this, but they need to print a retraction right fucking now.
It’s not going to make a damn bit of difference to the damage done to Rhiannon’s reputation, because people fucking love scandal.
Wasn’t this every single damn thing we were trying to avoid?
The ache in my stump flares sharp, electric. Like my body’s punishing me for every word that shouldn’t exist on that page.
My phone lights up with texts and calls from Sully, Emma, my mother, and even the youngest Morrigan sister, but I can’t face any of them. I can’t bring myself to talk to anyone.
My therapist has mentioned in previous sessions that my avoidance is “self-harm adjacent behavior.” That I’m cutting people off to hurt myself. But talking to me will only punish them all further than my actions already have.
I should have locked my article down.
Isn’t that the plot of a movie? Some person didn’t have a burn bag, or whatever the hell people call them now when they secure their deleted documents… then their data got stolen.
It’s predictable. So fucking predictable, and I feel like an absolute dick because as someone whose lived his life on the computer, dealing with sensitive information, I should have fucking known better.
Mum’s left a voicemail, even waiting for it to play has my stomach in knots. She doesn’t sound worried, exactly; there’s a subtle edge of parental impatience to her voice as she speaks. My throat clogs, jaw trembling, and eyes welling as they burn with the sting of unshed tears.
“You promised you’d try, Rob. Can you really say you’re trying?”
Try. That word hits harder than the article. Try feels like I haven’t. Like everything I’ve clawed back from the edge counts for nothing.
I love my mother, God knows I do. And I know she loves me, even if she doesn’t always love me in the way I need to be loved. But she just never meets me where I’m at when it comes to my mental health. If Dad were still alive, I expect he’d be worse.
They come from a time where mental health was seen as some kind of Madison Avenue term: something that didn’t really exist, and no amount of trying to educate them on the realities of living with depression seem to have done any good.
My hands tremble as I delete the voicemail and hang up. I rub at my temples, but no amount of pressure gets rid of the hammering bass thumping under my fingers.
My brain whispers, “You destroy people” on an unstoppable loop.
Panic, shame, fear, anger, and pain have taken over control of my body, so I do what any rational human being would do— I pull the blanket over my head and let the world shrink to the sound of my own heartbeat. I’ve weathered storms before, but this one feels like it wants to take me with it.