7. The PR Implications
Chapter seven
The PR Implications
Hayes
Islid the key into the lock and pushed the massive front door open.
The low rumble of the idling SUV in the driveway vanished the second the door clicked shut behind me.
The sudden quiet of the foyer rang in my ears.
I stood on the entry rug, waiting for the familiar sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.
The air conditioning kicked on somewhere inside the ceiling.
“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered to the empty corridor.
I tossed my keys onto the marble entry table.
They slid across the stone, the sharp clatter fading back into the dead quiet of the hallway.
Sutton always waited up for me, regardless of how late the studio shoots ran or how angry she was.
She never just went to sleep and handed me the silent treatment.
I reached for the buttons of my suit jacket, working them loose. The structured cut pulled at my tired shoulders. I shrugged out of the jacket and let it drop over the back of a nearby chair.
I pulled my tie loose, dragging the knot free from my collar, but the echoing house felt just as empty. My boots thudded against the floor as I stepped further into the foyer.
“Sutton, I’m home.” I raised my voice, projecting toward the second-floor landing.
The low hum of the refrigerator in the distant kitchen was the only response. I rubbed the back of my neck. I needed to map out my apology. She had every right to be furious about the missed dinner, and I was prepared to stand there and take the heat.
I just needed her to look at me so I could fix this.
My mother had backed me into a corner with Blaire, and Sutton had to understand the mechanics of the press cycle.
I would explain the logistics of the studio’s demands and promise to make it up to her tomorrow before my flight to London.
I turned the corner and walked down the hallway toward the back of the house.
The shadows stretched long across the floor.
“Sutton? I know you’re upset about today,” I called out into the kitchen, expecting to find her sitting at the island with a cup of tea.
I stepped through the archway. The counters were clean and bare. The room was empty. I gripped the edge of the island, scanning the unlit kitchen.
“I didn’t mean to miss our anniversary.” I pushed away from the counter and headed toward the adjacent room, bracing myself for an argument. “Please just come out here so I can explain the PR strategy.”
I crossed the wide threshold into the dining room.
The overhead pendant lights cast a dim glow over the long wooden table.
Two place settings sat opposite each other.
I stepped closer to the table, staring down at the congealed food on the plates and the twin candles that had burned all the way down to pools of cold wax.
I stopped right next to her chair. The dim overhead lighting caught a flash of silver resting directly beside her dinner plate.
I stared at the table, stunned. It was her diamond wedding ring.
“What is this…?”
I reached out and grabbed the ring off the table.
The metal band was freezing against my skin.
Leaving her ring behind was a severe overreaction to a simple PR dinner.
She obviously saw the paparazzi photos and assumed the worst, but taking off her wedding band was an unnecessary escalation just to punish me.
I closed my fist around the jewelry, squeezing the ring until the sharp edge of the diamond dug into my palm.
She always understood when my work ate into our time together. We had agreed from the beginning that the studio came with demands. As for Blaire, Sutton knew my co-star meant nothing and the chemistry was only for show. She was throwing this tantrum just to make a point before my flight.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed her number, pacing the length of the dining room. I needed to find out where she went, put the ring back on her finger, and talk her down from this cliff before the press got wind of it.
The line connected. The hollow, electronic tone buzzed against my ear. I reached the far wall and turned around, marching back toward the table. The phone rang a second time. Then a third. I squeezed the ring harder in my fist.
“The number you have dialed is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
A beep signaled the start of the recording.
“Sutton, pick up the phone right now,” I said. “I just walked in and saw the ring on the table, and this isn’t funny.”
I kept pacing. She was probably sitting in a hotel room downtown, watching her screen and ignoring me.
“Please just call me back,” I said. “I will explain everything that happened at the restaurant, but you are blowing this way out of proportion.”
I hung up, cutting off the useless voicemail recording. I was left alone in the quiet of the sprawling house. I held the phone, swiping through my contact list. I kept my fist curled tightly around the ring, ignoring the diamond cutting into my palm.
“Let’s see exactly how far you drove,” I muttered.
I tapped the saved number for the Centurion concierge. I resumed pacing, marking the seconds as the phone rang again and again. The line connected a moment later.
“Amex Centurion Concierge. Am I speaking with Mr. Gallagher?” the representative asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I need you to pull the last authorization on my wife’s card. Tell me where she went.”
“I can certainly help you with that, sir. For security purposes, I just need you to verify the billing ZIP code and your mother’s maiden name.”
I rattled off the security answers, my patience wearing thin. I expected the concierge to bend to my demands without the bureaucratic delays. The woman typed on a keyboard, the faint clicks echoing over the line. She placed me on hold, replacing the noise with tinny jazz music.
I walked back toward the dining table, staring down at the ruined anniversary meal. The candles had burned down to the holders, leaving puddles of cold wax across the placemats. An unappetizing film coated the roasted chicken and vegetables left on her plate.
I pressed the phone hard against my ear, my frustration mounting with every second of jazz.
The music cut out, replaced by the representative’s voice.
“Mr. Gallagher, I can confirm there was a point-of-sale transaction approved twenty minutes ago at a gas station in San Luis Obispo County.”
I stopped pacing. San Luis Obispo wasn’t a quick drive across town. It was hundreds of miles north. She hadn’t just checked into a local luxury hotel downtown to cool off. She was putting a massive stretch of the coastal highway between us.
“San Luis Obispo?” I demanded, my voice ringing off the high ceiling. “Are you sure that wasn’t a fraudulent charge? My wife is supposed to be in Los Angeles.”
“The charge was authorized using the physical chip on the card, sir,” the representative stated. “It is highly unlikely to be fraud.”
I ended the call, calculating exactly how many hours this detour would cost me.
The European press tour started in a matter of hours.
I needed to shower, review the talking points with my team, and get some sleep.
I did not have time for this ridiculous stunt.
She was actually driving hundreds of miles up the coast in the middle of the night just to spite me.
I dropped the phone into my pocket. Just as I turned back to the hallway, the front door swung open. The sudden noise shattered the silence of the house. I stepped over the threshold into the corridor, leaving the ruined dining room behind.
My mother marched into the foyer, trailed by Toby. Her heels clicked sharply against the floor. Toby walked a half-step behind her, his head down as he stared at his tablet.
“Leave the garment bags in the car,” Toby instructed the driver outside, not bothering to look back. “I need to finalize the London itinerary before we head to the tarmac.”
The driver pulled the front door shut, sealing the three of us inside the cavernous entry.
Having my management team standing in my foyer while my wife pulled a vanishing act was the last thing I wanted to deal with.
I braced myself. I expected my mother to panic the second she realized Sutton was missing right before a massive international press tour.
I walked down the hallway to meet them. Toby continued to tap at his tablet. My mother stopped near the entry table, right beside my discarded suit jacket. Her gaze took in my tense shoulders, dropping to the ring clutched in my left hand.
“Why are you standing in the dark holding jewelry, Hayes?” she asked, her tone flat and unbothered. “You look like a nervous wreck.”
“Sutton saw the paparazzi photos from the restaurant,” I said, holding the metal band up for her to see. “She left her ring on the table and drove all the way up to Northern California.”
Toby’s stylus stopped tapping against the screen.
He looked up from the tablet, his eyes widening slightly as the PR implications hit him.
My mother, however, didn’t flinch. She simply rolled her eyes.
She stepped closer to me, reaching out to rest her hand against my forearm.
She began to rub the sleeve of my shirt in a slow, soothing motion.
“Oh, sweetheart.” She sighed. “Don’t let her manipulate you like this. She is throwing a ridiculous tantrum to get your attention.”
I stared at her. Her complete lack of concern instantly lowered the stakes, and I loosened my tight grip on the ring. The tension drained out of my shoulders, her apathy making my panic feel like an overreaction.
“She’s never done anything like this before,” I argued, though the conviction had already bled out of my voice. “I understand that she’s angry with me, but I didn’t expect it.”
Her palm remained warm against my forearm, the firm pressure grounding my racing thoughts.
“She just wants space, Hayes,” my mother murmured. “Do not crowd her when she’s acting like this.”
I looked down at my left hand. My thumb dragged over the setting, tracing the outline of the stone.
I wanted to chase her car up the coastal highway, but my mother’s logic made an agonizing amount of sense.
If I sped up the coast right now, the paparazzi would catch wind of the chase.
I would just be dragging the exact circus she hated right to her motel door.
“The driver is idling at the curb, sir,” Toby said, his head still bowed over his tablet. “We are on a strict timetable tonight.”
Toby watched his screen in the shadows, silently counting down the seconds.
She’ll cool off by the end of the week, I reasoned.
I rolled the metal band between my fingers one last time.
Leaving her alone to drive up the coast was the most mature, protective thing I could do.
She needed a few days at a quiet bed-and-breakfast to process her anger over the restaurant photos.
I needed to finish this international press cycle so the studio executives would finally leave us alone.
We both just needed to survive this tour.
“Mr. Gallagher, the jet is fueled and waiting on the tarmac,” Toby said, lowering the tablet to his side. “We need to leave for London in exactly twenty minutes to hit our takeoff window.”
“You see, Hayes?” my mother said, stepping back. “We have a massive press junket waiting across the Atlantic, and you cannot validate this dramatic exit by ruining the tour.”
I slid the ring deep into my trouser pocket.
“You’re right,” I said, turning away from the ruined dining room. “If she wants space, I am going to give her exactly what she’s asking for.”
I walked down the hallway toward the front closet.
I refused to glance back at the dining room or the food sitting on the plates.
The wax had already hardened, and Maria would clear the table in the morning.
I reached into the shadows of the coat closet and grabbed my pre-packed travel bag.
It was the only part of the evening going according to the itinerary.
I slipped my free hand into my pocket, my thumb brushing against the band of her wedding ring. I told myself it was only temporary.
“Let’s go,” I said, turning back to my team. “I don’t want to miss the takeoff window.”
Toby pushed the front door open, holding it wide.
I stepped across the threshold, leaving the quiet of the house behind.
The cool night air hit my face, carrying the damp scent of the ocean and the bite of car exhaust. The black SUV sat idling at the curb, the engine holding a steady hum.
The tinted windows reflected the yellow glow of the streetlights, concealing the interior.
I crossed the paved driveway, the wheels of the bag rumbling against the concrete.
The driver stepped out of the shadows, opening the rear cargo hatch.
I handed the luggage over, watching him stow it next to Toby’s equipment cases.
My mother stopped near the open rear passenger door. She reached out and patted my shoulder.
“That is my good boy,” she said. “You focus on the cameras in London, and let her get this little road trip out of her system.”
I nodded, accepting her logic. I refused to let a tabloid photo derail the biggest international press tour of my career.
The franchise finale required my undivided focus, and the executives expected a flawless performance across the Atlantic.
As soon as the European leg wrapped, I would track her down, buy Sutton a diamond bracelet, and bring her home.
She just needed a few days to realize how irrational this exit was.
I turned to my handler. “Toby, just monitor the Amex alerts so we know she’s safe. But don’t call her. I am not playing this game.”
“Consider it done, sir,” Toby said, ducking into the front passenger seat. “Wheels up in thirty minutes, and the studio is going to be thrilled with your dedication.”
I slid into the spacious backseat. My mother followed me in, and the driver pulled the door shut.
As the door sealed shut, it instantly muted the noise of the neighborhood.
The quiet interior of the cabin wrapped around me, chilled by the blast of the air conditioning.
The distinct scent of conditioned leather filled the vehicle.
I sank into the leather seat, letting the quiet, controlled space block out the mess I left inside the house. The driver put the car in gear, and we pulled away from the curb, leaving the estate behind in the dark. I buckled my seatbelt, confident my mother was right.