Chapter 40
The house feels impossibly quiet after an evening at Dee’s. Jordyn and Stiles were there, and the food and conversation flowed with the kind of easy camaraderie that only comes with deep affection.
Dee’s twins had been passed around like little hors d’oeuvres, everyone wanting a cuddle and to nibble their chubby cheeks.
We celebrated the success of my first commission and Mick’s first novel, a dark fantasy.
I loved capturing all the moments on camera.
It had been a lovely night, and I spent every minute wishing Chaz was there.
He would have naturally fit in, razzing with the men and charming my girlfriends.
One day soon, I remind myself, closing my eyes and trying to block out the constant image of his dimpled smile. It doesn’t work. Nonetheless, this is what we both need: space, distance, and a little time to come back together stronger. With our baggage a little lighter.
After dinner, I asked Dee if her therapist might have a recommendation for me—someone who specializes in anxiety. It had taken some effort to get past the ingrained keep-your-dirty-laundry-private mindset.
“Progress,” I murmur, changing into sweats and a hoodie.
In the living room, I settle onto the couch with my heated blanket wrapped around my shoulders and laptop resting across my thighs.
I’m checking my email when the phone rings.
Chloe’s name flashes on the screen. Sophia had given me her number this morning, and I’d left her a message.
It was probably a long shot, but worth a try.
“Hi, Chloe,” I answer. “Thanks for calling me back.”
“Soph told me what you’re trying to do. I feel awful,” she says, guilt lacing her voice. “I should’ve gone to the party with her. Maybe if I had—”
“Chloe, don’t,” I interrupt gently. “You’re not to blame for what happened. The only person responsible is Drew Marshall.”
She exhales a shaky breath. “I was shocked, but then again, I shouldn’t have been.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just noise in the industry, nothing specific, you know?”
“Yes, I know what you mean. But is there anything you can think of we might be able to use?”
She lets out a dry laugh. “Guys like him are careful. If you’re looking for a smoking gun, I’m guessing it’s buried under a mountain of NDAs. Soph said she had to sign one.”
“She did, but even NDAs have limits. Is there anything, anything at all?”
“Well,” Chloe hesitates. “There’s this one woman I met at the conference.
She’s at Crave Marketing now, but she used to work for Drew Marshall before he left to join Ignite.
I didn’t think much of it at the time, but when I asked if she was going to his TED Talk, she made a face that said, No way.
I didn’t ask about it. I wish I had or that it had occurred to me when Soph was invited to the Ignite party.
I keep replaying it. Everything Sophia described.
I feel so responsible. She was my guest.”
Everything Sophia described. Could it be?
“Chloe, I know you feel guilty—”
“I do.”
“It’s not your fault, but I need you to be honest with me. Did you write an anonymous letter to HR claiming to be an employee who witnessed the events at the party?”
Silence.
“Chloe?”
“Will I get in trouble?”
“No. I’m not going to tell anyone, but I need to know if the claim is real or fabricated.”
“I thought it could help. Soph had nothing to do with it,” she quickly adds. “I did it after she left.”
“I understand why you did it, but officially, making a false complaint is a big no-no. It can have serious consequences. Never do that again. Unofficially, it stirred things up, and made Marshall nervous. Now, the company is aware. But what really matters is finding out who else this might have happened to. Do you have the number of the woman at Crave?”
“Yeah, we exchanged contact info for networking.”
“Will you give it to me?”
“Please don’t mention my name. It’s a small world. I don’t want to burn any bridges.”
“I’ll be totally discreet.”
“I’ll text it to you.”
“Thanks, Chloe.”
“Of course. Guys like Drew Marshall are so toxic. Women should be able to go to an event or to work without being groped and harassed.”
“Exactly. That’s why he has to be stopped.”
Moments after we hang up, the text with Britt Adams’ number comes through. This could be nothing—but it’s a clue, and right now, I’ll take whatever I can get.
That lead turns into a week of frustrating attempts until Britt finally agrees to meet me. In the meantime, I’ve barely spoken to my father, endured my mother’s relentless dinner invitations, and eventually conceded to a date. I’ve also had an introductory phone session with a therapist.
Dr. Marian Khan is no-nonsense but sensitive, and while I know it can take time to find the right fit, I’m willing to give her a shot.
She surprised me by praising my coping strategies.
I’d half-expected her to say they were unhealthy crutches and that I should start weaning off my stress ball.
A part of me feared judgment, but instead, she told me to keep doing what works and that we’d figure out what I wanted to get out of therapy as we went.
A bonus is that she offers virtual sessions, so I can continue even after I return to Bayside.
I miss Chaz so much that it’s a physical ache. Sophia told me he’s struggling too, but hearing he’s also decided to try therapy makes me happy.
On the work front, Drew has stopped pestering me about damage control, thanks to my assurances that it’s all been handled. He’s too smug to question how. My father doesn’t care to hear about problems. His motto is a twisted version of Nike’s slogan—Just fix it!
Frank and Don are suspicious about how I made the man who stormed into the boardroom disappear, but they know better than to push me when I say it’s done. Being the boss’s daughter has its privileges. So far, no one knows what I’m really doing.
“Just ten minutes,” I pleaded over the phone with Britt. “Hear me out. If you still don’t want to talk after that, I’ll respect your decision.”
I used my name, Lexie Monroe, to protect my Townsen cover. It would mean nothing to her.
Now, at 5:30 on Tuesday—a week after leaving Bayside—I walk into a dimly lit bar in Kensington Village. I’d looked her up online earlier, so I recognize the brunette immediately. Though, the nervous wringing of her hands would’ve given her away.
Britt orders a club soda, and I get a ginger ale to settle my stomach. The thought that she might not show had been making me queasy all afternoon.
“I don’t see how I can help you,” she says as soon as I sit down.
“I haven’t worked with Drew in over a year.
I’ve moved on. I like where I am, and I don’t want to ruin a good thing by getting involved in whatever this is.
” Her words are firm, but her darting eyes and jittery movements betray her nerves.
“I’m not trying to ruin anything for you. I promise. But this is important. A friend of mine was hurt by Drew Marshall, and I’m trying to help her. I know this is a big ask, but even a small piece of information could make a difference. I can leave your name out of it.”
There’s a heavy pause. “Hurt her how?”
The protocol requires me to get her account first, but desperate times and all that. “Marshall assaulted her,” I say, squarely meeting her gaze. “He lured her to a room under false pretenses, kissed and touched her, demanded sex, and threatened to ruin her if she didn’t comply.”
She doesn’t show any sign of surprise, just more nervous energy, her knee bouncing beneath the table.
“I know there are others. If you signed an NDA and are worried about the legal implications, don’t be. It’s meaningless when it comes to protecting him from a crime. It’s just a scare tactic. Please, Britt, if you know anything—anything at all—help me stop him from doing this to another woman.”
She lowers her gaze, tracing lines in the condensation on the glass. I hold my breath, tapping my fingers against my thumb, waiting.
Finally, she looks up. “I’ll tell you what I can,” she says quietly, still unsure. “But you have to promise to keep my name out of it.”
Relief floods me. “You have my word.”