17. Enemies Again
ENEMIES AGAIN
Lani
Ifind out the same way everyone else does.
My phone starts buzzing during my lunch break. Maya. Then Nia. Then three texts in a row: Don't look at your phone. Come to my desk. Now.
I look at my phone.
The headline knocks the air out of me.
MERCER'S SECRET BABY MAMA? CEO'S MYSTERIOUS COMPANION SPOTTED
There's a photo. Me. Walking into Ethan's building two days ago. My face is clear. Unmistakable. I'm wearing the green jacket I bought last month, the one Maya said brought out my eyes.
The article is garbage. Speculation dressed up as journalism. Mystery woman. Late night visits. Sources close to the CEO. But the photo is real, and that's all that matters.
My hands are shaking. I put my phone on the counter and try to breathe.
Nia appears at my desk. Her face is serious.
“Conference room B,” she says. “Now. Before anyone sees you.”
I follow her on autopilot. The hallway feels endless. I can feel eyes on me. Whispers starting.
Nia closes the door behind us and pulls down the blinds.
“How bad?”
“Bad. It's everywhere. Social media, the gossip sites. Someone's started a thread trying to identify you. Two reporters are downstairs in the lobby.”
I sink into a chair. My stomach churns. The nausea that's been fading comes roaring back.
“Does Ethan know?”
“Vivian called him twenty minutes ago. He's been in his office since.”
“With Vivian?”
“With Vivian and Malcolm. They've been on a call for an hour.”
The hearing is in five days.
“Lani.” Nia's voice is measured. “Before you go in. Whatever they've put together, they had to put something together. The hearing changes everything. Don't walk in there assuming the worst.”
I look at her.
“You're defending him.”
“I'm telling you what I'd want to know in your position.” She holds my gaze. “I've worked for that man for three years. He's a difficult human being. He's also not stupid. He's not going to turn on you. Not now.”
I nod. I don't believe her yet, but I nod.
“I need to talk to him.”
“Then go talk to him. Remember what's on the table. He's about to find out whether a judge takes his daughter from him. You're carrying a baby he didn't plan for. There are two reporters in the lobby. He's going to be in solution mode. Don't punish him for that.”
She holds the door open.
I walk out.
His office door is closed.
I knock once. He says “come in” before I've finished knocking.
Ethan is standing by the window, looking out at the city. Malcolm is in the chair across from his desk, papers spread in front of him. Vivian is on speakerphone in the middle of a sentence about preempting comment.
Ethan turns when I come in.
“Malcolm. Vivian. Give us a minute.”
“Ethan.” Vivian starts.
“Five minutes.”
Malcolm closes his folder, gathers his papers, and walks out. Vivian's voice clicks off.
Ethan looks at me.
“I'm sorry,” he says.
It's not what I expected.
“For?”
“For all of it. For closing the door this week.
For not telling you what Vivian was hearing until it had gotten this loud.
For the fact that you're finding out you're tabloid news at your desk on your lunch break.” He keeps his eyes on mine.
“And for whatever is going to come at you in the next twenty-four hours, which I cannot stop, only slow down.”
I sit down.
“What's the plan?” I ask.
“Don't comment. Don't engage. Don't go home through the main entrance until the photographers thin out. Malcolm's office can get you back to the building through the service garage. Vivian is drafting a statement that confirms nothing. We don't deny it, we don't confirm it. We wait.”
“Until the hearing.”
“Until the hearing. Then we figure out next steps as a family.” Something changes in his voice when he says family. I don't think he meant it to. “Anything we say in print before then becomes evidence. Vivian's strategy is silence.”
I nod.
“What about the baby?”
“Not in any press release. Not from us. Not yet.”
“And after?”
“After we figure it out together. You and me. Whatever you want.”
I exhale.
This is not the conversation I came in here ready to have. I expected a damage control plan that treated me like a liability.
Instead, he's apologizing. Instead, he's saying as a family.
I'm not angry anymore. I don't know what I am.
“Thank you,” I say. “For telling me. For asking.”
He nods.
“I shouldn't have closed the door this week,” he says. “I told myself I was protecting you. I was hiding. I'm sorry.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay. Not forgotten. But okay.” I stand up. “I'm going home. The service garage. Tell Malcolm to set it up.”
“He will.”
I move toward the door. Stop.
I look back at him.
He's by the window. He looks tired in a way I haven't seen before.
I want to cross the room.
I don't. Not with reporters downstairs and Vivian on hold.
“After the hearing,” I say.
He nods. “After the hearing.”
I open the door. Malcolm is in the hall. He nods at me. I nod back. He goes into the office. The door closes behind him.
I take the service elevator down. There's a car waiting in the garage. The driver doesn't speak to me. I'm grateful.
I get back to the penthouse, take off my coat, take off my shoes, walk to the kitchen, and make ginger tea.
My hands are shaking. I let them shake.
It's three in the afternoon. Lily won't be home for two hours. Ethan will be at the office until eight, dealing with Vivian and Malcolm and the fallout.
I think about Nia. Don't punish him for being in solution mode.
I think about Ethan. As a family.
I think about the photo. The green jacket. Two reporters in the lobby.
I'm not going to be the reason he loses her.
I'm halfway through my tea when his email forwards arrive.
It's a thread from Vivian. Sent to him this morning, before the article broke. He's forwarding it to me with one line at the top:
You should see this. I rejected it. I want you to know I rejected it.
I open the thread.
The first email is Vivian's. Subject line: Re: Strategy Options if Story Breaks.
Ethan, it begins. If the photo runs, we have three credible strategies.
Option A is silence. We let the story burn itself out.
Option B is a measured, non-specific statement acknowledging a relationship and asking for privacy.
Option C is what I would recommend if the custody hearing weren't on the table.
We frame the assistant as the aggressor.
Young woman, ambitious, history of a failed company, recently hired by you despite being underqualified, took advantage of access to her boss.
We position you as having made an error of judgment that has been corrected.
This strategy plays well with the investor class and the family court audience, but it requires destroying Ms. Torres publicly.
I do not recommend C unless you authorize it explicitly.
I am noting it because in a worst-case scenario you may need to choose between protecting your daughter's living situation and protecting Ms. Torres's reputation, and I want you to have made that choice with information rather than in panic. Let me know how to proceed.
I read it three times.
The word replaceable is not in it.
The word seduction is not in it.
She didn't recommend it. She presented it as an option she did not recommend, with a specific reason for naming it. She put it in writing so he could not choose it without a record.
The next email is Ethan's response, sent at 11:47 a.m. Two hours before the article broke. Three hours before I walked into his office.
Vivian. Not C. Not now, not ever. I will not destroy Lani Torres to win this case. Even if it means I lose. Go with A. Update me when the story breaks.
I put the phone down.
I sit at the kitchen island with my hands flat on the cold marble.
He rejected it. In writing. Two hours before I knew the story existed. Before he had any reason to perform for me. Before I could ever have found out.
He chose me before I asked.
I cry. Brief and embarrassed. I let it happen.
Then I pick up my phone and text him.
I read the emails.
The dots appear. He's been waiting.
I'm sorry I had to know they existed.
A pause. Then:
Don't be sorry.
I wipe my face.
Come home, I type. I hit send.
The dots come back.
I'm on my way.
I leave the phone on the counter. I refill the tea kettle. I put on the small lamp in the living room and the bigger one in the hallway. I sit down on the couch with Bun's spare blanket folded over my knees, and I wait.
Whatever happens after that, we'll figure out together.
Whatever this is, it's not over.