Page 43 of Twisted Truth

“I may have a lot of power, but I’m not a monster,” I say, curtly.

Ella squeezes Zahra’s hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

It only takes ten minutes to pack all of Ella’s things. She wasn’t lying. She really had only one suitcase of clothes with her when she got here. The only other things she has are the new clothes she bought with Matthew and a few notebooks and office supplies she bought for when she worked at home.

Ella gives Zahra one more hug as we leave and tells her she’ll call her each night and report back on her safety and well-being. I roll my eyes. But then I’m also secretly glad Ella has a friend so fiercely loyal to her. I’ve seen my share of women drop a friend like a bad habit once they were in my vicinity because their only goal was to get near me.

The paparazzi swarm us again as we exit the building, and the security team gets Ella and me in the car before going back in for Ella’s suitcase and boxes. Hopefully the paps will see us leaving with her things and back off the building, letting the people who live here be in peace.

Ella’s eyes are a bit glazed as she buckles her seatbelt, and guilt snakes through me. Because just like that, every last bit of independence she had is now gone. I’m relieved she’ll be safe, but I know that it comes with a cost.

“When we get back to the office,” I say, breaking the silence between us, “just leave your things in the car. We’ll take them home with us tonight after work.”

“Home,” she says, mulling over the word as she watches out the window.

“Yes, at least for now, my home is your home.”

Ella and Istep into my penthouse just after eight o’clock, exhausted. My meeting kept getting pushed back with Mr. Stroud’s delayed flights, and Ella stayed late to catch up onwork. I can see the same weariness I feel in Ella by the slight slump of her shoulders and the heaviness in her steps.

It’s been a long fucking day.

Ms. Graham, my housekeeper, lights up as soon as she spots Ella. I introduce them to one another and Ms. Graham practically buzzes with excitement—I assume at having a woman in the penthouse.

“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hale,” Ms. Graham says, pulling Ella into a hug. “Why don’t you get settled into a room, and then dinner should be ready.”

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” Ella says. “And thank you, I’m starving.”

“I didn’t cook it. That would be Mr. Moreau, the chef. I simply run the home.”

Ella’s eyes widen. “Oh, okay.”

“As I said, all the spare rooms are upstairs,” I say, leading Ella up the floating staircase. “You can pick any room you want. Ms. Graham does all the cleaning, laundry, and shopping for the house. Except she and Mr. Moreau split food shopping duties. He insists on buying all the ingredients for meals himself, and she buys anything else to have on hand like boxed foods or simple necessities. So, if you need anything, just let her know. She works Monday through Friday. Mr. Moreau also works Monday through Friday, but he cooks ahead so that there are dishes to heat up on the weekends. I usually dine out for dinners and use the weekend meals for lunches.”

“Wow, that is . . . crazy.”

“Crazy, but convenient.”

I show Ella all three rooms, and she picks the one at the end of the hallway; it has an incredible view of the city. I set a box of her things down on a chair in the corner and wheel her suitcase beside it.

“There’s an intercom in the penthouse right here, near the bedroom door. If you need anything, or if you need to speak tothe security team, you can get in contact through the intercom. We also need to get you a new phone and phone number, and I’ll make sure all the security staff’s contacts are in it.”

She wraps her arms around herself, and takes a long breath. I can see she’s overwhelmed. I can’t blame her.

“I’ll let you have a minute. I’ll text you when dinner’s ready.”

Twenty minutes later, Ella’s eyes practically roll back into her head as she takes a bite of her dinner. The chef made Boeuf Bourguignon, one of my favorites, and Ella seems to appreciate it as well.

“This is incredible,” she says through a sigh.

I chuckle as I pour myself a second glass of wine. I’m finally feeling a little more like myself. I’m used to stressful days, but stressful days at work rarely include emotional upheaval. Business is business, and emotions are separate. That is the way I operate. It’s one of the reasons I’m so successful. But I couldn’t avoid emotions today. Not when guilt and unease snaked through me with each one of Ella’s signatures on our contract, with every addendum that now affects her life. Not when I understand the price wealth and fame can bring.

The anniversary of my grandfather’s passing is in five months. And on that day, I’ll relive it while I hide behind smiles and lies. Even twenty-five years later, my family doesn’t want the truth known. And I agree with them. If people knew what really happened that day, they might get ideas. It could repeat. And now Ella is pulled into the sphere of my family, our influence, and the attention of the public.

And it’s all my fault.

I take a long drink of wine and shake my maudlin thoughts away. What’s done is done. I can’t change it. All I can do is make sure I get it all right.

Ella’s phone pings again and again. “Sorry,” she says, silencing it. “Emily is texting me. We just need to finalize a fewthings before tomorrow’s meeting. We want to make sure our boss is very pleased with our efforts,” she adds with a smirk.