Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(58)
“I’m telling the truth.”
Before she can say another word, I disconnect the call, then flip through my settings, shutting down every possible ringtone and chime. I hand the phone to my lawyer, who tucks it into his leather portfolio. He’ll hold it for me while I’m making my remarks so there’s no chance of me doing something idiotic like dropping it on the sidewalk. He was a stickler on that point. Why, I don’t know.
I’ve been relatively calm, but now that the press is beginning to focus all their attention on the podium, my heart beats faster.
This is it.
This is the moment I thought would never come, and now I’m the one forcing it to happen.
Frank puts his hand on my shoulder in a show of strength and support, turns me toward him, and then looks me up and down. I follow his gaze, making sure that my jacket is buttoned, my fly is zipped, there are no errant threads, no pieces of lint—nothing to distract from my message. Quinn herself has done the same thing many times since we started working together.
I wish she was doing it right now. I wish it was her by my side. Frank’s a good guy, but nobody holds a candle to Quinn.
I steel myself. This is the only way I’ll ever have a chance at getting her back. If I want her to stand by my side at any point in the future, I have to get through what’s happening here right now.
“You ready?” Frank asks, looking directly into my eyes. This is my final chance to back out. I know he’d happily go out and tell the press that there had been a mistake, that there would be no announcement today.
“Let’s get this shit over with.”
He gives me a confident nod, and then we both head toward the front doors.
The sun is hot, beating down on the shoulders of my suit, instantly making me feel like I’m trapped in a furnace.
As we discussed in advance, Frank approaches the podium first. “Christian Pierce of Pierce Industries,” he says simply. The reporters shift their weight from foot to foot. One blogger raises his hand as if he wants to ask Frank a question before this circus has even started, but then decides better of it.
I move to the podium and open the portfolio, sliding the sheet of paper with my remarks—written in a large font in case I lose my ability to see clearly—out of the protective pocket.
I clear my throat, scan the words on the page, then look directly into the ABC7 camera. Conveniently, they’ve positioned themselves right in front of the podium.
I swallow hard.
Everyone holds their breath.
Somewhere across the city, Quinn is watching.
“Good morning,” I begin, my voice confident and clear. “My name is Elijah Pierce. Ten years ago, my brother, Christian Pierce, died of a drug overdose at a party being held to celebrate our eighteenth birthday. At that time, distraught and traumatized, I assumed his identity. I have been using his name and living as Christian Pierce since that time.”
They don’t wait until I read the rest of my statement.
They just start shouting random questions.
Chapter 47
Quinn
I’m frozen in place behind my desk, hand covering my mouth, as Christian seems to be looking into my eyes and speaking directly to me through the screen.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice steady, without an ounce of shame. “My name is Elijah Pierce. Ten years ago, my brother, Christian Pierce, died of a drug overdose at a party being held to celebrate our eighteenth birthday. At that time, distraught and traumatized, I assumed his identity. I have been using his name and living as Christian Pierce since that time.”
Holy shit.
The press surrounding him—I can’t see how many people there are because obviously ABC isn’t going to put competitors on camera—pounces the instant Christian stops speaking to take a breath. He tries unsuccessfully to quiet them, and finally his lawyer steps up to the podium, waving them down.
“One question at a time, please,” he calls, once, twice, three times, and finally there’s a semblance of silence.
A woman’s arm, covered by the sleeve of a coral jacket, juts into the frame, holding out a microphone. “Mr. Pierce, why are you revealing this information on broadcast news? Has your family been informed?”
Again, Christian looks right into the camera.
“I wanted the world to know the truth,” he says, and my heart bursts.
“Why did you do it?” pipes up a male voice from somewhere off-camera.
“It was my impression that my father had a closer connection with my brother,” Christian says, not hesitating for a single moment. “In my devastation, I made a snap decision to spare my father the pain of losing his favorite son.”
In another instant, I’m up out of my seat, grabbing for my purse. This time it does tip, spilling half of what’s inside into my desk drawer. The only thing I stop to grab is my wallet, and I shove my phone inside on my way out the door.
For once, I don’t care if people see me rushing.
“I’m going out,” I shout to Adam on my way past his desk, and he does a double take when he sees me moving at such a high speed on three-inch heels. “If Walker asks, you can tell him it was a client emergency.”
That’s what this is, after all. My one and only client has taken it upon himself to schedule and follow through on a press conference during which he has announced information fit to destroy his reputation completely. There’s a good chance I might get fired for this—I’ve seen people let go from HRM for less. All I can do now is rush to the scene of the disaster and try to spin it.