The next morning,I woke to the incessant rumble of my phone on the nightstand. Groaning, I reached for it, my eyes bleary. The screen was a chaotic flood of notifications: missed calls from Danny, my publicist, my agent in London, even my parents. Shit. A knot of dread twisted in my stomach as I opened the first news alert.
The headline screamed at me: “MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER’S STEAMY GARDEN RENDEZVOUS WITH MYSTERY REDHEAD!”
Below it was the photo. Beth and me, locked in that passionate, desperate kiss. It was a damn good photo, technically speaking. The lighting, the emotion… it was also a complete catastrophe.
I scrolled through a few articles, my blood running cold. They were already connecting her to the “wild night out” video from before. The comments were a cesspool of speculation and judgment aimed at her. My fault. All of it.
Just as I was about to call Danny, my phone lit up with his face. I answered, bracing myself.
“Have you seen it?” Danny’s voice wasn’t strained; it was buzzing with a manic energy, the kind he got when a big deal was on the line. “It’s everywhere! My phone’s been ringing off the hook since five a.m. The BBC wants an exclusive. You, myfriend, are officially more famous for kissing a mystery redhead than for any of your bestselling books.”
“Jesus,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “What about the sponsors?”
“Okay, so a couple of the stuffy, old-guard ones are clutching their pearls. I’ll have to talk them off a ledge, maybe send them a fruit basket. But the new inquiries? The requests for interviews? Through the roof,” he said. “Like I told you, a little shagging between consenting adults isn’t a career-ender in Britain; it’s practically a national sport. But,” his voice sharpened, “we need to control this narrative now, before it controls us.”
I straightened up, my own strategic brain kicking into gear. He was right. “Okay. A press conference. This afternoon.”
“Exactly,” Danny said. “I’m already setting it up.”
“And I’m not apologizing,” I said firmly. “I won’t do it. I’ll own it. I’ll talk about authentic connection, about how sometimes you meet someone who turns your world upside down. I’ll use my own material against them.”
“Good. That’s the angle,” Danny agreed, all business now. “The passionate guru who practices what he preaches, not the reckless playboy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. But that brings us to the biggest variable: her. The press will have her identified by lunch, Sean. Her life is about to become a living hell.”
The thought made my stomach churn. “That’s what I’m worried about. I need to find her, Danny. Before they do. We need to be on the same page, assuming she doesn’t tell me to piss off again.” I paused, thinking. “You have connections here. Can you get someone on it? Find out who she is, where she’s staying. Discreetly.”
“Already ahead of you,” Danny said without missing abeat. “Made some calls. Got a guy on it. He’s ex-MI6. If she’s used a credit card or a cell phone in this city, he’ll find her.”
Relief, sharp and profound, washed over me. “Thanks, man.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Now you listen to me,” Danny’s voice turned serious. “This fire is good for business right now, but you need to play your part perfectly. You go into that press conference looking too eager, too much like a lovesick puppy, and they’ll eat you alive. You need to look serious, concerned, and completely in control. Can you handle that?”
“I can handle it,” I said, my voice steady.
“Good. Now get your ass out of bed. We have a narrative to build.”
I ended the call, my mind clearer, more focused. Danny was right. This was a high-stakes game, but it was one I knew how to play. My promise to Beth in the empty room felt less like a whisper now, and more like a plan. “I’m sorry, Beth,” I said to the empty room. “But I will make this right. I promise.”
I headed to the shower, my mind already outlining the key points for the press conference. I couldn’t erase the panic I’d seen in Beth’s eyes, but I wasn’t just going to hope we’d find a way through this. I was going to build the goddamn road myself.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BETH
The relentless buzzingof my phone jolted me from a deep slumber, the sound slicing through the fog of sleep like a siren. I groaned, cracking one eye open to the harsh light streaming in, and raising a hand to my forehead, feeling like I’d been flattened by a freight train. My head throbbed, a painful reminder of last night’s ill-advised drinking binge that was meant to wipe out the memory of the disaster with the photographer. Groaning, I reached for my mobile, squinting at the screen. Why the hell do they make these screens so bright?
“Fuck me sideways,” I muttered, my eyes widening as I scrolled through the endless notifications. Missed calls from Mum, Dad, Kinna, and about a dozen numbers I didn’t recognize. Text messages. Instagram tags and other social media mentions.
It was like the same nightmare playing repeatedly, waking up to bad news.
My stomach lurched as I opened the first news alert. Theheadline affronted me in all caps: “WILD CHILD HEIRESS BETH MACLEOD CAUGHT IN STEAMY CLINCH WITH AMERICAN MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER!”
“No, no, no,” I whispered, my hands shaking as I continued through the article. There it was, in full color glory, a photo of Sean and me locked in that passionate kiss in the garden. My face was clearly visible, my red hair a dead giveaway.
I felt the bile rise in my throat as I read the speculation about our “torrid affair” and “secret rendezvous.” They’d dug up every sordid detail of my past, painting me as some kind of party girl seductress who’d ensnared poor, innocent Sean McCrae.
I almost threw my phone across the room, when it buzzed with an incoming call. Mum.
Fuck.
