Manwhore +1
Page 96
“Hey, it’s not you who’d can us, it’s that asshole.”
“Still—”
“Rachel, get out of here. Go and get a life. A different one. One where you can look back and all this,” he spreads his arms to encompass the newsroom, “was just a part of it. A big part, but only one part.”
I really had hoped Valentine would consider us maybe striking out together, giving ourselves a platform for our stories. I really wish they weren’t so understanding and kind, and so hard to leave. I really wish Helen had been an asshole all the time, so I could walk away with my box of things without tears in my eyes. But of course that’s not the case. It never really is, in real life.
So I do sniffle—a lot—and give out more hugs than I’ve given out in a while, and then I walk out of Edge and dump my box of things outside, keeping only the portrait of my mother I used to have on my desk and a little pen that I got at a motivational conference that says GO FOR IT, and so I am.
Without a call.
Without a text.
Without any kind of forewarning . . .
I head to M4.
Saint asked me to come to him, but the truth is, I need to. I just need to look at him and be inspired by all that strength of his and maybe, I just need to hear him tell me everything will be all right.
I’m leaving the old me behind at Edge.
I’m leaving all my mistakes.
I’m leaving the scared girl behind.
This is me taking the leap.
And I need to know that he won’t let his father goad him any farther, that he won’t be acquiring Edge.
Because Malcolm Saint has done enough for me.
I’d let him do anything else now, I realize, because I trust him—he can love me, protect me, help me—but not go to war over me.
At reception, the ladies are surprised to see me—but I can tell they’ve seen the social media. They know I’m the “girlfriend” now.
“Miss Livingston, what a surprise,” one says. “I’m sure Mr. Saint will be pleased—if you’ll let me ring you up?”
I thank her and then head up in the elevator. Breathe, Rachel.
Catherine is already on her feet when I get off, also a bit flustered by the surprise visit. “He’s with some of his board, if you’ll just take a seat for a moment.” I smile weakly and grip the M in my fist, tugging it and rubbing it against the R.
As I wait, I listen to his four assistants take calls and type on their keyboards. I smooth my skirt down my thighs when the door to his office opens and a pack of businessmen emerge.
They’re all screaming confidence and power. “Good day, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Thompson,” Catherine calls to the businessmen as they head to the elevators.
And then I hear his voice from within the room. It’s so deep—familiar—I feel it like a low hum, vibrating in the deepest part of my body.
“He should’ve known if he wanted to play hardball, I’d be game. I’d strike a home run before he even realized he made a mistake throwing a ball my way,” he says decidedly to the man with him. Then he spots me and lifts his eyebrows and the ruthless smile he’s wearing—the one directed at the person he means to crush—starts to fade when he sees me sitting here, my eyes maybe a little red as I struggle not to show how crestfallen I feel.
“We’ll settle this once and for all tomorrow at two,” he tells the businessman in a lower voice.
The man nods and leaves. My gaze is caught—my heart is frozen—as Saint slowly stalks forward. Directly toward me. He takes me gently by the arm as I stand, and leads me to his office, and I know by his gentle but firm grip that he knows I’m not okay.
Inside his office, he pulls me into his arms, tells me, “Breathe.”
I grip his tie and nod.
“You came to me,” he groans then, in my ear, as if that thought undoes him.
“Always,” I whisper, still gripping his tie.
“Mr. Saint,” his intercom beeps. “Your one o’clock just arrived?”
I watch him walk with that confident stride of his to his desk as I try to hold myself together. With a press of a finger, he tells her, “Reschedule. I’m going to need an hour.”
I shake my head. “Don’t, really. I’m all right. I just came to let you know . . . I’m out. I leapt.”
I spread my arms out and turn to stare out his window, not sure how I feel about my next words. Scared? Hopeful?
“I’m a free agent.”
“Then turn around and look at me, Rachel,” he whispers.
“Still—”
“Rachel, get out of here. Go and get a life. A different one. One where you can look back and all this,” he spreads his arms to encompass the newsroom, “was just a part of it. A big part, but only one part.”
I really had hoped Valentine would consider us maybe striking out together, giving ourselves a platform for our stories. I really wish they weren’t so understanding and kind, and so hard to leave. I really wish Helen had been an asshole all the time, so I could walk away with my box of things without tears in my eyes. But of course that’s not the case. It never really is, in real life.
So I do sniffle—a lot—and give out more hugs than I’ve given out in a while, and then I walk out of Edge and dump my box of things outside, keeping only the portrait of my mother I used to have on my desk and a little pen that I got at a motivational conference that says GO FOR IT, and so I am.
Without a call.
Without a text.
Without any kind of forewarning . . .
I head to M4.
Saint asked me to come to him, but the truth is, I need to. I just need to look at him and be inspired by all that strength of his and maybe, I just need to hear him tell me everything will be all right.
I’m leaving the old me behind at Edge.
I’m leaving all my mistakes.
I’m leaving the scared girl behind.
This is me taking the leap.
And I need to know that he won’t let his father goad him any farther, that he won’t be acquiring Edge.
Because Malcolm Saint has done enough for me.
I’d let him do anything else now, I realize, because I trust him—he can love me, protect me, help me—but not go to war over me.
At reception, the ladies are surprised to see me—but I can tell they’ve seen the social media. They know I’m the “girlfriend” now.
“Miss Livingston, what a surprise,” one says. “I’m sure Mr. Saint will be pleased—if you’ll let me ring you up?”
I thank her and then head up in the elevator. Breathe, Rachel.
Catherine is already on her feet when I get off, also a bit flustered by the surprise visit. “He’s with some of his board, if you’ll just take a seat for a moment.” I smile weakly and grip the M in my fist, tugging it and rubbing it against the R.
As I wait, I listen to his four assistants take calls and type on their keyboards. I smooth my skirt down my thighs when the door to his office opens and a pack of businessmen emerge.
They’re all screaming confidence and power. “Good day, Mr. Stevens, Mr. Thompson,” Catherine calls to the businessmen as they head to the elevators.
And then I hear his voice from within the room. It’s so deep—familiar—I feel it like a low hum, vibrating in the deepest part of my body.
“He should’ve known if he wanted to play hardball, I’d be game. I’d strike a home run before he even realized he made a mistake throwing a ball my way,” he says decidedly to the man with him. Then he spots me and lifts his eyebrows and the ruthless smile he’s wearing—the one directed at the person he means to crush—starts to fade when he sees me sitting here, my eyes maybe a little red as I struggle not to show how crestfallen I feel.
“We’ll settle this once and for all tomorrow at two,” he tells the businessman in a lower voice.
The man nods and leaves. My gaze is caught—my heart is frozen—as Saint slowly stalks forward. Directly toward me. He takes me gently by the arm as I stand, and leads me to his office, and I know by his gentle but firm grip that he knows I’m not okay.
Inside his office, he pulls me into his arms, tells me, “Breathe.”
I grip his tie and nod.
“You came to me,” he groans then, in my ear, as if that thought undoes him.
“Always,” I whisper, still gripping his tie.
“Mr. Saint,” his intercom beeps. “Your one o’clock just arrived?”
I watch him walk with that confident stride of his to his desk as I try to hold myself together. With a press of a finger, he tells her, “Reschedule. I’m going to need an hour.”
I shake my head. “Don’t, really. I’m all right. I just came to let you know . . . I’m out. I leapt.”
I spread my arms out and turn to stare out his window, not sure how I feel about my next words. Scared? Hopeful?
“I’m a free agent.”
“Then turn around and look at me, Rachel,” he whispers.
