Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
A Marble Bathtub
“Should we lay another smooch for the crowd?” He murmurs low enough that only I can hear. The rasp in his voice sends heat waves down my thighs. All the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I’ve almost forgotten every camera is aimed perfectly at our faces.
They must’ve been tailing our car, because the same crowd is here, waiting for us as we pull up to the entrance to the hotel.
A man in a red vest opens the car door first on the driver’s side. Holden tosses the keys in midair to him before running to the passenger side door where I am seated.
This is completely normal, I remind myself as I lean in to lay a gentle kiss on his cheek. I have no bags. The key to our room is given to us as soon as we enter the building. Inside the king suite, I open the door to find one big king-sized bed. The muscles in my feet and face become paralyzed.
“I’m going to ask for a cot.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can just share the bed.” The mattress looks suddenly smaller than before at second glance.
The buzzing in my hand won’t stop, as I grip my phone with endless texts pouring in. Any restraint I had to ignore them is not working.
I’m glued to his words.
Aidan: We had a great time tonight. What the hell was that?
Aidan: I can’t believe you would embarrass me like this.
Aidan: Mr. Carlson might be backing out of the deal because of you.
Aidan: Four years, Charlotte. FOUR!
Somehow, the number of years we have been together never dawned on him any other time. I’ve gotten everyone’s attention with one kiss. The anger permeates my body that if someone did a CT scan at this very moment, it would just show red burning within me.
“Is everything okay?” Holden’s voice is neutral and calm.
“As well as it can be considering—” I waggle my finger between him and me.
“Why did you do it?”
“Optics, Holden,” I say flatly.
Holden’s neutral expression has dropped, showing somber eyes and a slightly downturned smile. A similar expression to the photo that I found hidden behind his TV when I visited his house weeks ago.
“I am going to step outside to make a call. Be right back.”
“Be careful.”
His Tom Ford black dress shoes glide to the window, opening the curtains to show a swarm of paparazzi that haven’t left yet. A village of tiny ants viewed from the eighteenth floor.
“I think I’ll make the call in the bathroom.”
“Good choice.”
He slips me a smile for a microsecond.
I open the door to notice the empty marble tub. Slithering into it, I position myself to dial his number.
If I call, then this is really it.
I’m going all in on this, and there’s no takesies-backsies.
The call connects. As soon as I hear breathing on the other end of the line, I blurt, “I think I am done.”
“Excuse me?” His voice sounds groggy, as if I have disturbed his sleep.
“Yes. I’m officially calling it quits.”
“Do you know who you are calling?”
“Absolutely.”
“Ms. Tate, you will never come back from this. Come back to me in the morning when you aren’t inebriated.”
“Chris, I am still quitting. For your information, I’m completely sober.”
“Charlotte, now is not the time to get some balls. You can get a promotion. Just stop.”
“Oh yeah, Chris? Here’s some balls for you… Time of death as your lackey is eleven thirty.”
With the touch of one button, the call disconnects. A wave of exhaustion washes over me as soon as the call ends. My mind fades to silence as Chris’s grating voice is no longer repeated in my head.
My eyes surrender to sleep.
The next time I open them, I am hyperaware of every limb in my body. Every ache in my back. My ribs are still compressed by this corset.
I stand up slowly and move to the mirror to find black mascara running down my cheek. Stripping down to my bra and undies, I frantically search for a washcloth.
Every inch of black refuses to come off no matter how much soap and water I apply. Each time I drag the cloth against my face, it becomes redder. I pop my head through the door and creep outside to find a note slipped underneath and lying at the foot of the door.
Running an errand. I’ll be back in an hour. –H
Rereading the note a few times, I dissect every word before settling on how I like that he is H. Maybe I will call him that?
I have no backup clothes and no mode of transportation. All I have is my purse, phone and a few sticks of gum. In the closet, I manage to find the softest robe imaginable, waiting to be worn. Wrapping myself up, I fasten the belt around my waist, hearing the repetitive knock on my door.
“Bonjour, your favorite ghost is here.” Skye slips through the doorway, making a dramatic beeline for the bed and flopping backward like she owns the place.
“So. I heard you quit your job.”
“Yep. I’m just unemployed. Super sexy, I know.”
“Mmm. Bold. Slightly unhinged. I like it.”
“Yeah, I’m just full of surprises,” I snap. Skye rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hands. Her face softened.
“You’re free, for the most part.”
Then why did freedom feel simultaneously like a breath of fresh air and a weighted blanket all at once?
“Yeah, I’m free, alright. I’m about to be blackballed in the industry…”
“Chris isn’t the master of the universe.” Skye’s eyes roll into the back of her head. Her little “everything will be just fine” one-liners won’t work on me.
“Tell anyone in public relations that—”
“You don’t have to be in public relations, Charlotte,” Skye says.
I swallow hard, clearing my throat. I’m not sure how true that is.