Chapter 39 In The Court of Public Opinion #2
The heat hits first—too much, too fast—when I step back inside the museum. Velvet. Noise. A gala that didn’t flinch. Somewhere behind me, Chicago howls. In here, the roulette wheel hums. Champagne catches the light. Someone laughs too loud.
You’d never know a man got his face cracked open in the lobby.
Heads turn. I feel it before I see it. Whispers coil through the room. A couple at coat check pretend not to stare. A man in a navy tux does a double take, then looks away fast.
“Mr. James.”
I don’t jump, but I want to.
Two museum security officers. One Black, one white. Both wearing that same neutral mask I’ve seen since I was fifteen.
“We need to speak with you privately.”
I nod once.
They lead me down a side hall, past the jazz trio that’s still playing—still playing—and into a staff corridor washed in fluorescent light. My shoes sound louder here. Heavier.
A small conference room waits. Cold chairs. A pitcher of untouched water.
Spencer’s voice hits first.
“He’s a fucking lunatic—ask anyone—he just snapped—”
He’s slouched in the corner, face swollen, gauze stuffed in one nostril.
But he’s not alone.
Stephen Buchanan stands beside him, tux jacket still on, bow tie undone. Judge Vanessa Buchanan sits perfectly composed, black clutch in her lap. An entire courtroom distilled into one woman.
Spencer smirks.
I want to hit him again.
“Mr. James,” Vanessa says smoothly. “We’re here as a courtesy.”
It’s not a courtesy.
It’s control.
They donate every year. Headliners. Power patrons. And I just broke their son’s nose in the lobby of the city’s biggest charity gala.
She isn’t here as a judge.
She’s here as a mother.
Her eyes lock on mine. Controlled. Measured. Furious beneath the surface. If Spencer were less injured, Stephen might be leading this conversation. But tonight?
Her son is bloodied.
Stephen folds in quietly. “We agreed not to escalate tonight. That doesn’t mean we won’t act tomorrow.”
I lift a brow. “Funny how your son calling a woman out of her name doesn’t count as escalation.”
Spencer shrugs. “Can’t help if she’s sensitive.”
Stephen’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t correct him.
Vanessa exhales slowly, already deciding how this ends.
The security chief clears his throat. “We’re reviewing footage. Mr. James, anything you’d like to add?”
“I’m good.”
Stephen straightens his cuff. Calm. Deliberate. “My son may be impulsive,” he says, “but he’s still a Buchanan.”
The name does the work for him.
I keep my hands folded, swallow everything I want to say. I’m not giving them a reaction.
Vanessa studies me like evidence. Cataloging. Filing me away for later.
Spencer watches, waiting for me to snap again. I don’t.
Another knock.
The door opens.
Kelley.
Tailored. Unbothered. Phone in hand like an accessory, not a weapon.
“Gentlemen,” he says easily. “Sorry to interrupt, but August has somewhere else to be.”
The room shifts.
Stephen stiffens. Vanessa narrows her eyes. Even Spencer straightens, startled out of his performance.
Kelley addresses the security chief, voice calm but final. “This is a legal conversation now. Counsel’s on call.” He lifts the phone slightly. “I’d advise you to check your tone.”
Not a threat.
A fact.
The officers hesitate. Vanessa gives a minimal nod.
Kelley turns to me. “We can go.”
I stand slowly. No sudden moves.
I look at Spencer one last time. His bruised eye twitches, already turning purple.
I hold his gaze just long enough to make sure he remembers it.
Monday arrives like a punch in the face. Maybe that's because I did in fact punch someone in the face, but I digress.
I barely sleep. When I do, the dreams drag me under. From the first scrape of sunrise against the glass, the day feels predatory, like it’s pacing outside my door, waiting for a crack.
The penthouse isn’t an apartment so much as a holding cell for someone with too much money and not enough self-control.
Every surface reflects the mess I made, but the real chaos is internal, my mind rewinding the museum lobby on a sickening loop.
Spencer’s face collapsing under my knuckles.
The crowd’s gasp. Blood bright against marble.
Then his mother’s look. More dangerous than any fist. Controlled. Surgical.
I grip the bathroom sink, eyes bloodshot, jaw rough with stubble. The man staring back isn’t a CEO or a philanthropist. He’s a man who lost control for two seconds and will pay for it in years.
Water stings when I splash my face. Doesn’t reset a damn thing.
The kitchen is silent except for the fridge’s hum and the pulse of my regret. My phone sits facedown on the counter like a dare. I let it sit, watching the city wake up thirty stories below. Spencer’s “see you” lingers like a bad aftertaste.
Mostly, I’m tired. Not the kind you sleep off. The kind that makes you wonder if you ever really woke up.
I flip the phone.
47 unread messages.
12 missed calls.
Emails. Slack. Encrypted team chat. Board. Legal. PR.
The headline hits before I even brush my teeth:
PHILANTHROPIST AUGUSTUS JAMES IN ALTERCATION AT MUSEUM GALA
It looks worse in black and white. No context. Just damage. The banner photo catches me mid-turn, jaw locked, eyes on Spencer crumpled on the floor. It doesn’t look heroic.
It looks uncontrolled.
“Allegedly,” the article says, like there’s any doubt.
Eyewitness quotes blur together. He snapped. There was shouting. It was over fast. The Buchanan’s are “considering all options.”
The comments are already not in my favor.
I shut the phone off and toss it back on the counter. It’s not even seven a.m., and the day is already lost.
The suit from Saturday still hangs in the closet, blood speckling the cuff. I stare at it too long, then pull on a black T-shirt and jeans instead. Funeral camouflage.
The apartment feels hollow. I keep expecting her voice, her soft laugh, the teasing what did you do this time, CEO? Instead, there’s nothing. I insisted Harlee go home. Told her to stay away from the mess.
Already, I regret it.
I check my phone again.
Emmett, rapid-fire: Status update needed. Board wants a statement before 10. CBS is calling. Donors are nervous.
Then the board thread:
Emergency meeting rescheduled to noon. Legal will be on the call.
Buried underneath it all:
Harlee: Let me know if you want company. I’ll bring food. Or silence.
I read it three times. The first feels like a lifeline. The second like something I don’t deserve. The third makes me smile, just barely.
I don’t answer.
But I don’t delete it either.
A knock cuts through the moment.
Too sharp for a delivery. Too early for friends.
I open the door.
Kelley, in gym clothes, holding two coffees and a protein bar, grinning like this is just another Monday.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says, sliding past me. “Emmett’s downstairs. I bought you ten minutes.”
He hands me a coffee, drops onto a stool like he owns the place.
“Tribune yet?” he asks. “Page three. You look like a Bond villain.”
“I feel like one.”
He sobers. “Okay. Damage control or anti-hero arc?”
I don’t answer.
Kelley leans in. “The Buchanan’s are pushing hard. Museum board’s meeting. Stephen’s lawyered up.”
“Fantastic.”
“There is upside,” he adds. “Twitter loves you. You’re trending.”
“Kill me.”
He shrugs. “Better than Cancel August James, which is also trending.”
I rub my face. “Is Emmett calling for my head?”
Kelley hesitates. “He’s suggesting a voluntary leave. Optics.”
“So yes.”
“You punched the DA’s son. Twice…On camera.”
“He deserved it.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Kelley says, voice going flat. “You want to win, you think three moves ahead.”
He glances around the apartment. “Where’s Harlee?”
“She’s where we should be. The office.”
He smirks. “Ah. Strategic distance.”
Another knock. Louder.
“That’ll be Emmett,” Kelley says, propping his feet up like he’s daring me to object.
Emmett enters like an executioner. No tie. Black turtleneck. Folder thick enough to bruise.
“We have three problems,” he says. “The Buchanans. The media. Your board. They’re dialing in from Europe at nine-thirty.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“You’re calm,” he notes.
“I’m exhausted.”
“Don’t be.” His eyes cut. “This isn’t over.”
He opens the folder. Charts. Flow diagrams. Color-coded damage.
“We need a strategy. Press. Donors. Legal. You need to decide whether you’re stepping aside or facing this head-on.”
“We just launched a new initiative.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Emmett says. “You’re the story now.”
Kelley doesn’t look up. “My vote? Take the leave. Let it cool.”
“And disappear?” Emmett counters. “That’s how they erase you.”
Silence stretches.
Emmett lowers his voice. “Do you regret it?”
I meet his gaze.
“Fuck No.”
He nods once. “Then we build around that.”
An hour later, Emmett slides a file across the island.
No preamble. No speech.
Just paper.
NOTICE OF INQUIRY: Office of the Inspector General.
Quiet. Off-record. Filed overnight.
No signature. No date. One sentence underlined in black:
We believe Mr. James used personal violence to secure financial or reputational gain.
I don’t need a name to know who sent it.
This isn’t about justice.
It’s about leverage.
I can’t remember the last time the phrase media firestorm was just a clever metaphor. Now it’s literal. My inbox is a four-alarm blaze: rumors, hot takes, clickbait headlines, all feeding on each other like oxygen is unlimited.
Every outlet wants a quote. When I ignore them, they escalate. Calls. DMs. Tags on my personal accounts. Ambushing my staff for my “whereabouts.” And it’s not just the professionals. It’s the new breed of digital jackals: social sleuths with a taste for blood and zero respect for due process.
I’m a trending hashtag. A TikTok duet. A face on the evening news with a banner that reads: “Violence in Philanthropy?”