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“They want to know about the timeline of Lauren’s illness from our perspectives. Our whereabouts during the days leading up to her quarantine. And the conspiracy tale that’s currently circulating the media in which you are testing nonregulated pharmaceutical drugs on your employees as part of a trial program for a company you are interested in purchasing.”
It’s impossible to swallow my seething. “That’s ridiculous.”
“No,” J.T. lightly laughs again, “what’s ridiculous is the report speculating that you’re harvesting your staff for their organs so you can sell them to your black-market ties.”
“People don’t actually believe that do they?” Agitation leads to me defensively stomping my black dress shoes covered feet in his direction. “Has Pham released an official statement denying those claims on the company’s behalf? Has Evie released one on behalf of me?”
“Those things are unnecessary at this time, Wes. It’s just trash mag shit no one has thought twice about,” my second in command calmly reassures, “however, if you are concerned about these headlines having a detrimental effect, I’ll reach out to Pham and Evie during your date to get that settled. You,” he points a sharp finger at me, “just focus on your date.”
“Wait,” my eyebrows lift in question, “I thought you had a prior engagement this evening and that’s why you encouraged tonight being the best opportunity to ask Bryn to dinner.”
“Oh, yeah, no, I lied.” He juvenilely grins. “You needed not to be able to hide behind me, and she simply needed the opening.” The waggling of his eyebrows receives another glare. “You’re both welcome.”
“Well done, J.T.,” Clark warmly praises. “Very well done.”
“Don’t…encourage…him,” I fuss with a crooked smirk.
“Then I shall encourage you not to be late for your date.” The head tilt is scolding. Fatherly. “Two minutes and then I send Bryn here to retrieve you herself.” An all-knowing smile slides into place as he begins backing away. “And trust me, if she is anything like her mother that’s the last thing you want.”
His exiting inspires J.T.’s, who makes sure to deliver a reassuring pat on the back before doing so.
Completely alone for the first time all evening, I take a single moment to admire my reflection, the same reflection I’ve spent so many years avoiding, in the full-length mirror.
I hate mirrors, in general, but I especially hate these.
The ones that give you the entire view of my hideous figure.
If it weren’t for a fact this were a prized family heirloom – from my mom’s side – I would’ve destroyed it like I did the others when I was finally able to walk on my own again.
I don’t need to see me.
I don’t have a valid reason to want to.
Having a fit form courtesy of long runs and weightlifting sessions completed only to counter alcohol cravings is not a good reason.
Tracking the scars to see which have faded and which never will, is also not a good reason.
Once upon a time, caring about my reflection had true purpose.
I was a package to present.
A legacy to display.
An extension of one of the most prestigious names in some of the highest circles.
Now?
Now, that’s just another haunting memory.
Down in the formal dining room – that’s clearly been cleaned based on the lemon fresh scents still floating through the air – I anxiously circle the table, needlessly adjusting knives.
Forks.
Wine glasses.
Truthfully, everything is exactly where it should be except me.
I don’t belong here.
