Chapter One #2
As sympathetic as I found my babygirl, I was inclined to agree with Mona here.
The entire point of going on Call Your Daddy—the entire reason Samantha was here instead of Yukiko or Marcie—was for her to be as explicit as possible about the positive aspects of our marriage.
Fiona Hall's listeners—overwhelmingly young women of roughly Samantha's age who viewed her journey as aspirational—wanted dirty stories about our sex lives.
They wanted to imagine themselves in her shoes.
They wanted to hear that Kiki's hand had been between my babygirl's legs making her cum while I pumped her full of the wedding-night load that got her pregnant.
What they did not want to hear about were her parents. Or what they'd done to Jessamyn Fawkes.
Or Chloe.
“With all due respect, Mona,” Samantha whispered, “I'm not sure that you can.”
“Try me.”
Samantha was already shaking her head. “She's trying to take something I care about,” my babygirl said.
The tears brimmed anew in her eyes, even as her hands gently shook with anger.
“That's nothing new. That's been the playbook her and dad have been running their entire lives.” She lifted her head, meeting my gaze with her brilliant blue eyes.
“They would've taken you away from me if they could have, Daddy. You and Kiki and Marcie.”
“I never would have let them, babygirl.”
“I know,” she said, meaning it to the depths of her soul.
“This is the best they can do instead—I've been looking forward to this interview ever since Mona proposed the idea, and now I'm going to have to worry about what Mom's going to say the entire time.
I'm not going to be able to relax.” She sighed.
“But she doesn't get to take this from me.”
I blinked. “Babygirl—”
“She doesn't get to be the reason I ran,” Samantha said thickly.
“I'm fucking done running, Daddy. They're on the outside looking in, and the only way they can get in now is if I run away and leave the door open.” Her voice got quiet, barely above a whisper.
“This isn't just about me anymore. We have to think about the whole family, Daddy. There are people out there trying to destroy us, and they have names.”
Victoria Ruocchio, I thought. I couldn't help but wonder if she'd been the one to tip the Lowrys off about my babygirl's podcast interview. Maybe she'd pulled the strings that brought Dawn here today.
If she had, I planned to make her pay for it.
We’d been on the defensive too long, I realized. Everything we’d done over the last few days was about getting the momentum back in our favor. If we stopped that right here, right now, then what?
Mona's shoulders fell. I could see her, in real time, coming to the conclusion that Samantha wasn't going to be swayed. I watched her subtly readjust her priorities as the knowledge sank in, like her inner shark had decided to switch to easier prey.
She couldn't let it go without one last try, however. “Samantha,” she said, the anger falling from her voice. “As someone who respects both you and your husband a hell of a lot—and considers myself your friend—I can understand why you want to do this. I can even see the wisdom in it.”
“Good,” Samantha began.
“But I'm not your friend right now,” she said, her tone stiffening. “I'm your head of PR, and the part of me that’s your friend does not get a vote at the moment. There are too many things that could go wrong here. We don't even know what Dawn is planning to say!”
Words echoed in my skull, spoken by Jessamyn Fawkes on the front steps of my house at two in the morning. There are things you don't know about the Lowrys. Even Samantha doesn't know.
Now I wished I'd heard her out.
But whatever Jessamyn had offered to give me actually was, Dawn Lowry wasn't about to confess it on a podcast in front of the entire world. Was she?
No. Certainly not.
“Noted,” Samantha said, a faint smile spreading across her features. “And for the record, Mona, you're right. But I'm still doing this.”
Mona bit back a sigh. And then she turned to me.
“Jack, go get the producer,” she asked.
I cleared my throat. “Mona, Samantha's made it pretty clear—”
Somehow, my shark managed to smile. “I know that. I'm not fighting it. But I am having a conversation with those sons of bitches. We're not sending Samantha out onto a battlefield without at least knowing where all the troops are going to be.”
Duly noted, I thought.
I opened the green room door, intending to march down the hall until I found somebody to hail.
A producer—the same one who'd told me about Dawn Lowry in the first place—stood just outside the door, clearly eavesdropping on our entire conversation.
The woman flushed beet red when she saw me glaring at her.
“Mr. Avery,” she stammered. “I...”
“Inside,” I growled. “Now.”
She came with a little eep, following me into the lounge.
Mona crossed her arms beneath her breasts.
Behind us, Caroline was already on the move, reaching for her bag to change Samantha's makeup. “Not appropriate anymore,” was all she said in response to her questioning glance. “You need to put your war paint on. Don’t worry, babygirl. You’re going to shine so bright that everyone else in that room is going to look like dirt. ”
Samantha looked impressed. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“I’m good in a crisis,” Caroline told her with a wink. “Something tells me that with this family, it’s pretty much a non-stop crisis…”
She had our number there.
Mona didn’t waste a lot of time reading the producer the riot act. We had precious few minutes before Samantha needed to be in the room with Fiona Hall. “Tell me about Dawn Lowry.”
The producer glanced nervously between the angry PR woman in front of her and the blonde getting serviced on the couch. “She’s not supposed to know about it—”
“That cat’s out of the bag,” I grunted. “Spill it.”