30. Busted #2
“I know,” he interrupts gently. “I’ll have you out the door in half an hour. Go, shower. I’ll whip something up. I can also take you to the office, so you don’t need to get an Uber. We’ll figure out getting your car later.”
In record time, I was able to shower, throw on a change of Ryan’s clothes, and scarf down the scrambled eggs he whipped up.
We were out the door and in his car in less than the thirty minutes he promised me it would take.
When we walked into my place, Jordan was sitting on the couch as if she knew I’d be on my way over.
She had jumped off the couch the moment the door shut behind us.
“Isa! Oh my god. How are you? Ryan! How are you?” she rambled off, racing over to us.
I couldn’t do much more than shake my head and lock myself into my room.
I left Ryan out in the living room with her where I can still hear their low voices now.
I still want to cry. But I also don’t think I have anything left to give between last night and this morning.
I grab the first professional looking outfit that I find from my closet and throw it on.
A black pantsuit. I would laugh about how it fits the mourning vibes if I had any ounce of humor left in me.
I pull my hair into a high ponytail because I can’t be bothered to do much else with it.
Using my fingers, I comb my bangs into some semblance of submission.
I do my five-minute makeup routine before I give myself a last once over.
The woman looking back at me is a wreck and looks nothing like the strong, confident woman I’m used to seeing. There are dark circles under puffy bloodshot eyes, all of which are a combination of the stress, tears, and lack of sleep. My shine is dulled.
With a resigned sigh, I lift my chin, channeling a confidence I don’t quite feel, and step out into the living room. Ryan and Jordan immediately stop speaking. She rushes over to block my path to the front door.
Grabbing my hand in hers, she gives it a squeeze. “Maybe it won’t be bad news?” Her small smile carries so much hope in it that it’s heartbreaking for me to look at her for long.
I drop my gaze to the scuffed loafers on my feet.
I wish I was wearing my sneakers.
“Jord,” I start, voice quiet but flat. “You know it will be. Your wishful thinking is appreciated but misplaced.” My eyes sting but no tears fall.
She gives my hand one last squeeze before she releases it and steps back. “I’ll be here if you need anything.”
I lift my eyes to hers and give her to the smallest of nods, the only response I can manage at this point. Then I flick my eyes to Ryan. “Let’s get this over with.” And with that we’re both heading back out of the building to where his car is parked.
He follows me around to the passenger side and opens my door for me.
I offer him a watery smile in thanks. I expect him to close the door once I’m in, but he surprises me by grabbing my seatbelt and leaning across me to click it into place.
With a chaste kiss to my forehead, he closes the door and rounds the car to his side.
For a Monday morning, we make record time to the office.
I’m fifteen minutes early for my meeting and trying to do everything in my power to not hyperventilate as I stare at the nondescript office building that’s about to upend my entire life.
Ryan’s hand rests on my thigh where it’s been since he started the car back at my building.
His thumb traces circles over my inner thigh.
“Do you want me to wait here for you?”
Yes. “No, it’s fine,” I lie. “I’ll call Jordan or catch an Uber. You can head out. I’m sure you have your own media shitstorm to deal with.”
Do I want him to wait for me? Yes, absolutely. He calms me. Comforts me. His presence is the whole reason I haven’t burst into a full-on panic attack yet this morning.
But I also know that this conversation is going to be about the mistakes I’ve made. With him. And I don’t know what kind of mental state I’ll be in when I walk out. What seeing his face will do. Will I finally break?
He nods, but I can see the defeat in his eyes. “Okay. I—” He cuts himself off. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”
I nod before I switch on that false confidence again and drag myself from the car.
It’s time to face the firing squad.
Walking through the front door of Boseman Production Security, the first thing I notice is the number of people who completely stop everything they’re doing to stare at me. Which is everyone. And of course, almost everyone is in the office first thing on a Monday morning.
I nearly let them get to me. Almost let my steps falter. But I can’t let them see me crumble. I push forward, installing my own personal set of blinders, pretending I don’t see them as I head straight for Mr. Boseman’s office.
I’m still a good ten minutes early and yet both him and a woman from HR are both already settled in his office. Waiting for me.
“Ms. Rossi, thank you for coming in on such short notice,” Mr. Boseman says. His voice is even and gives no indication of how this is about to go, but I don’t need him to release the hold on his poker face for me to figure it out.
“Of course,” I answer with a curt nod. “It wasn’t a problem.” Mr. Boseman wordlessly gestures for me to take a seat in the only free armchair positioned around his desk, which I ease myself into.
“I’ve asked Joan to join us this morning,” he says, gesturing to her. She gives me a closed-lip smile and nod of greeting. “I’m sure you’re aware of why I’ve requested this meeting?”
I gulp, likely loud enough for the entire room to hear, and give him a shallow nod in confirmation. No point in lying now that it’s plastered across the internet.
“Great. Let’s get straight to the point then.” He shuffles some papers around on his desk before he finds what he’s looking for. He passes it across the desk to hand it to me. Taking the papers, he continues, “I’m sure you’re familiar with your employment contract?”
“I—Yes, I am.”
“Good. Can you read out the highlighted portion from page seven for us?”
I flip through until I locate the page and section he’s referring to. But I didn’t even need to see it to know which clause he wanted me to read.
I clear my throat. “‘The employee shall not enter into a relationship of romantic nature with anyone associated with the production they support.’” I lift my eyes to where Mr. Boseman sits behind his desk.
His face is a mirror of the one your parents always give you after you’ve gotten in trouble. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.
Clasping his hands on top of his desk he leans forward. “You are aware that ‘anyone associated with the production’ would include the athletes in this case, yes?”
“Yes, sir. I am aware,” I reply. I don’t know how it’s possible, but his disappointed frown deepens further.
He offers a curt nod. Shuffling through papers again, he pulls out the photos from last night—the whole reason we’re sitting here in the first place—but also a few other paparazzi shots I hadn’t seen before.
The first is from the coffee shop the morning after the gala when we were almost caught. It’s only me from behind with Ryan standing in front, hands planted on my shoulders, holding me in place, his eyes locked with the camera over my shoulder.
Another is a side-by-side from the gala that a tabloid must have compiled.
On one side, you can see the smallest bit of hem from a red dress and a sliver of a single gold heel.
It’s been enhanced from the bottom corner of a shot of Ryan exiting the limo we rode to the gala in.
The other side is one of the pictures Liz had the carpet photographers get of the two of us together where you have a full shot of my dress and the shoes I was wearing.
Fuck.
If last night’s images alone weren’t enough, these tell a pretty damning story when laid out together.
“Can you confirm it’s you in these photos?”
I sigh and squeeze my eyes closed to fend off tears. “Yes, it’s me,” I confirm, pushing to speak around the thickness in my throat.
Mr. Boseman purses his lips at my response. “Between all these photos that were brought to our attention, it seems your connection to Mr. Fletcher goes back to at least mid-July.” He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “When did your relationship with Mr. Fletcher begin?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “We started a friendship within my first few weeks of starting with the team. But it didn’t turn romantic in nature until June.”
He lets out a sigh and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Right. Well, you’ve clearly broken this major clause in your contract. Unfortunately, your employment at this company will be terminated, effective immediately. Joan will walk you through the next steps.”
Joan begins speaking, but I barely process any of the words she’s saying, only nodding when it makes sense to acknowledge her. I’m entirely numb to the situation at this point. The panic spiral will come later.
Once everything has been signed and information on final paychecks and termination of benefits has been discussed, I’m dismissed.
Thankfully, Mr. Boseman knows me well enough to not give me the full security perp walk out of the building.
Instead, he’s opted to take on that responsibility personally. What’s left of my dignity is grateful.
It’s only once we’ve stepped out of the building that he turns to speak to me.
“I’m truly disappointed in this development.”
“I understand,” I offer, my voice weak. I have no fight in me. There’s nothing to fight for.
“You are damn good at your job. You were my favorite of all my direct reports. But don’t tell them I said that,” he tacks on with a small laugh.
I huff one out myself, but it’s forced. “I am sorry for everything. I knew better.”