9. No Signature Required
Chapter nine
No Signature Required
Hayes
Flashbulbs erupted in a blinding, continuous strobe against the branded backdrop of the London theater.
Thousands of fans pressed against the steel barricades lining the street, their high-pitched screams echoing off the pavement.
I adjusted my lapel, staring straight into a wall of camera lenses.
The flashes bleached my vision, leaving behind floating purple spots. I forced myself to stand straight.
Four months. Sutton had maintained unbroken radio silence for four months. The temporary road trip my mother recommended had stretched into a terrifying void.
I told myself it was fine. She just needed time to cool off in some quaint coastal town, away from the paparazzi and the noise. I was securing our financial future on this European tour, building the foundation she always wanted.
“Just smile,” Eleanor had told me in the hotel lobby an hour ago. “Give them the fantasy.”
Blaire blocked my way down the carpet. She slid her arm around my waist, gripping my hip. The heat of her body pressed flush against my side. I held my ground, enduring the contact without flinching.
The photographers screamed our names, begging for a tighter angle. I kept my hands resting flat against my sides, refusing to wrap my arm around her shoulders in return.
Blaire tilted her head, leaning it against my collarbone. “Hold still,” she whispered, her breath washing over my jaw. “The main broadcast camera is panning to us right now. Give them the profile.”
“Your grip is digging into my ribs,” I muttered, forcing my practiced smile to remain perfectly intact.
Blaire shifted her weight, driving the heel of her stiletto into the carpet. “If I let go, the gap between us looks terrible on the monitors. You need to relax your shoulders, Hayes. You feel like a board.”
“I’m posing for the photos,” I replied. “Just get your shots and let’s move down the line.”
“Five more seconds,” she said, leaning heavier against me.
I stared at the red tally light blinking on the massive television camera thirty feet away. The hollowness of the routine settled over me. I was standing in the middle of a screaming crowd, tied to a woman who meant nothing to me, selling a manufactured romance.
The weight of Blaire’s arm dragged me down. I just needed to finish this final premiere, satisfy the studio heads, and board a flight back to California.
A reporter broke from the designated press pen, shoving past a security guard in a neon vest. He lunged forward, thrusting a foam-tipped microphone directly into my face. The sudden movement forced Blaire to press closer against my side.
“Hayes, the chemistry between you and Blaire is absolutely undeniable!” the reporter shouted, fighting to be heard over the deafening roar of the barricades. “Are the rumors true that things are heating up behind the scenes?”
Blaire squeezed my waist. She laughed, a bright, musical sound perfectly pitched for the microphones. She dragged her nails over my jacket, drawing the camera lenses down to where she clung to my side.
“We promised Eleanor we wouldn’t kiss and tell!” Blaire said into the microphone. She looked up at me, flashing a brilliant, coy smile. “But honestly, Hayes is an absolute dream, both on and off the set.”
The reporter shifted the microphone back to me, waiting for the headline. I looked at the black foam. I thought about the diamond ring sitting next to a cold dinner plate on a wooden table.
My mother’s strategy required this exact transaction to keep the American audiences engaged while I was overseas. It was just a job. I pasted on a flawless, charming smile and leaned toward the reporter.
“It’s impossible not to feel a spark when you’re working with someone as captivating as Blaire,” I said, raising my voice to carry over the noise. “I think that connection speaks for itself on screen.”
I reached the end of the press line and let my smile drop.
Leaving Blaire posing for the photographers, I turned my back on the steel barricades.
I stepped up the concrete stairs and pushed through the drapes hanging over the theater entrance.
The curtains closed behind me, swallowing the blinding flashes and the roar of the crowd.
The lobby was dim, lined with patterned carpet that absorbed the sound of my footsteps.
The sudden quiet left the space echoing.
I stood in the foyer, catching my breath in the cool air.
The stiff collar of my shirt dug into my neck, damp with sweat from the television lights on the carpet.
Toby materialized from the shadows near the coat check.
He held a tablet in one hand, his face lit by the glow of the screen.
“Keep moving, sir,” Toby said, gesturing toward the back hallway. “The crowd is pushing forward against the barricades, and security needs this vestibule clear.”
I rolled my shoulders under my jacket, ignoring the fatigue setting in. I took another step away from the entrance, determined to leave the cameras behind.
“I’m clear of the cameras,” I said. “Let the guards manage the crowd. Just give me the timeline for the rest of the night so I can get out of this suit.”
Toby fell into step behind me, trailing closely. He tapped a stylus against his screen, bringing up the evening itinerary. The rhythmic tap echoed off the walls. I rubbed the back of my neck. I had spent weeks playing the required role across Europe.
Sutton had made her point by ignoring my calls, but the silent treatment was over. I was going to buy an extravagant gift, fly back to California, and bring my wife home. My checkbook and a sincere apology would bridge the gap.
“You crushed that interview, sir,” Toby said, scrolling through his notes. “The car is waiting out back to take you to the hotel so you can change your shirt, but Eleanor wants you at the VIP reception in exactly thirty minutes.”
I stopped walking in the middle of the hallway.
Toby paused just ahead of me, looking back in confusion.
I ignored the itinerary on his screen, holding his gaze to make it clear we weren’t following my mother’s standing orders tonight.
I needed the jewelry secured before the boutiques closed, and I needed my handler to manage the transaction.
“I’ll be ready,” I said. “But before you meet me there, I need you to go to that boutique on Bond Street we passed earlier and purchase the diamond necklace from the front window.”
Toby blinked, lowering the tablet to his side. The plastic stylus slipped in his grip. He hesitated, visibly torn between his terror of Eleanor’s wrath and my direct order, trying to figure out how much trouble a jewelry run would actually cause.
“I can certainly send an assistant, sir,” Toby said, his voice dropping in volume. “Eleanor expects me to be at the hotel to prep your talking points for the foreign distributors.”
“Put the tablet away, Toby,” I said. “I am skipping the prep.”
Toby’s thumb hovered over the glowing screen. A low, rhythmic bass thumped through the floor beneath my feet. The main premiere screening was starting on the other side of the velvet curtains, and the noise of the auditorium crept into the muted vestibule.
The muffled bass pounded against my temples.
I was running on four hours of sleep and an endless stream of stale airplane coffee, and the exhaustion was settling deep into my bones.
Sutton had spent months screening my calls, throwing this prolonged tantrum, and I was finally ready to end the stalemate.
“Sir, Eleanor specifically requested—”
“My mother is sitting in the front row watching the opening credits,” I interrupted. “She is not going to notice if you leave the building for twenty minutes.”
I reached inside the breast pocket of my jacket and slid out my black credit card, which caught the dim light of the lobby.
Toby lowered his arm and tapped the stylus nervously against his leg. He looked at the card, visibly panicking as he weighed which one of us he was more afraid to disobey.
I didn’t give him the option to refuse. I stepped forward in the narrow hallway. I grabbed his wrist, forced his hand open, and pressed the card into his bare palm.
“I don’t care about the talking points right now,” I told him. “Take my card, buy the necklace, and bring it directly to my suite before we head back down to the party.”
Toby stared at the black card resting in his hand. The power of that card outweighed my mother’s schedule. He knew exactly whose checkbook fueled the PR operation.
He slipped the card into his own pocket, accepting the order.
“Understood, Mr. Gallagher,” Toby said, raising his tablet to his chest. “I will handle it personally and meet you upstairs in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you,” I replied, rolling my neck to ease the tension. “Tell the driver to pull the car around to the alley exit.”
I turned my back on the velvet curtains and walked toward the back doors, ready to retreat to the hotel and wait for my apology gift.
I pushed through the door of the penthouse suite.
It clicked shut behind me, instantly cutting off the chaotic noise of the hallway.
The soundproofed walls blocked out the ambient hum of the London traffic below, leaving the space dead and silent.
I dropped my tuxedo jacket onto the back of the sofa.
It slid off the cushions and crumpled onto the carpet. I didn’t bother picking it up.
I yanked the knot of my tie, pulling it loose against my sweating neck.
I unfastened the top button and rubbed my collarbone, breathing in the cold, circulated air of the room.
I needed to get the VIP reception over with so I could finally sleep.
I turned toward the bedroom to find the fresh clothes Toby had promised.
A knock echoed through the quiet space. I stopped in the middle of the room, turned around, and went back to pull the door open.