I don’t usually flaunt Damien’s money—our money as he constantly reminds me—but in this case, I want John and Bijan to understand that my presence at their various locations isn’t subject to the timetables of the commercial airlines. And while it would certainly be reasonable for me to ask for reimbursement for travel costs in addition to my contract bid, because of the benefits to Fairchild Development should I land this project, I’ve already talked with Damien about not doing that simply because it makes my proposal that much more appealing.
“That’s excellent to hear. And you know that we’re looking at a relatively fast time frame. You’ll be working with a team?”
“I will,” I say, and I fight to keep my smile from faltering. I’d been hesitating to hire additional help until I found out about this job. Unfortunately, now it sounds as if I need the team in place in order to secure the position. “I’m looking at a team of three, including me.” I’m hoping they don’t ask for resumes of my two associates. While I’ve done preliminary interviews and have found a few promising candidates, I haven’t yet made offers to any of them.
“And you’re confident about the time frame? Your recent news doesn’t change anything?”
I frown, confused. “My news?”
He glances again to Bijan, who slides him a manila folder. John opens it, takes out a single sheet of paper, and passes it to me.
It’s a printout from a web page, and the moment I see the headline and the photograph, I freeze.
“Oh,” I say stupidly when I’m once again capable of forming words. “This is—” I swallow and try again, but words aren’t coming. My head is too full of what’s on the paper I’m staring at.
The headline is absurd—Soon a Starkling!—but the photograph is even worse. It’s me, passed out on the lawn of Misty’s house, my head in Damien’s lap.
Suddenly, my whole body ignites as if embarrassment is a bonfire and it’s burning me alive.
But what the hell do I have to be ashamed of? I know enough about photography to know that someone standing across the street took the picture with a long lens. That person should be ashamed—being nosy, selling private photographs.
And the only people who know I’m pregnant are Damien and the staff at the clinic. I’m certain Dr. Cray isn’t the “unnamed source” identified in the article, but I bet the receptionist who didn’t meet my eyes when she passed me a pen to sign out yesterday earned a few extra bucks.
Bitch.
I swallow, draw a breath, and meet John’s and Bijan’s eyes in turn. “I didn’t realize any of this had made the papers.”
“So it’s true.” The two men exchange a glance. “We’re concerned that your pregnancy may impact our timetable. Not the quality of the work,” he hurries to add. “But I’m sure you understand that we’re on a tight schedule. And with a pregnancy, things aren’t always certain. You could end up on bed rest.”
“I won’t end up on bed rest,” I insist, but I see him glance down at the paper. At the image of me on the ground. You hadn’t expected to pass out, either, he seems to be saying. So how can you possibly know what’s to come?
I stand, though I feel decidedly unsteady, and the fact that I’m so off balance pisses me off. Especially since when I entered this office, I believed I had the job nailed down.
Suddenly, I wish I were applying for actual employment. Then they wouldn’t have even been allowed to ask about my pregnancy. But Title VII doesn’t apply to me, and if these men want to hire another candidate because my pregnancy lowers their confidence in me, then that’s their prerogative.
“Gentlemen,” I say, lifting my chin. “You’ve seen my work. You’ve reviewed my proposal. I have every confidence that Fairchild Development can get this project in on time, under budget, and with exceptional quality. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I nod my head, pick up my satchel, and stride from the office. If nothing else, I want the last goddamn word.
More than that, though, I want to get out of the building before the tears come. Because I can feel them pressing against my eyes, and I jam my finger on the elevator button and hold my breath, praying that neither Bijan nor John follows me out.
Only when I’m safely in the elevator car do I let my body sag and frustration take over. I cry all the way from the thirtieth floor to the lobby, and when I step out, I wipe away my tears, lift my head, and go to meet my driver.
If he can tell that I’ve been crying, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he opens the door for me and says simply, “Back to the hotel, Mrs. Stark?”
“Yes,” I say, then immediately contradict myself. “No, actually. There’s somewhere I want to go first.”
I’m in a funk as the driver maneuvers the Dallas streets, and not just about the possibility of losing this contract. No, that’s only one tiny blip on a much larger radar screen.
The truth is that even though I’ve been front and center in the press ever since I started dating Damien, I still haven’t developed the knack of knowing what’s going to trigger tabloid interest. And it never once occurred to me that this pregnancy would be news.
Or, not news, but gossip. The kind of gossip that sells magazines, makes the rounds on social media, and has over-eager paparazzi gathering outside my office or trailing my car or lingering near the gate to our Malibu property.
I made the decision to put up with it when I married Damien, and I’ve become much more adept at handling the press. For the most part, they don’t even bother us anymore. We’d been in the spotlight when the news leaked that Damien had paid me a cool million to pose nude for a portrait, of course. And then again when he’d been arrested for murder—and when the charges were dropped.
Later, they’d been in our face yet again when Damien had decided to publicly reveal the history of abuse that his tennis coach had inflicted on him for so many years. That’s when Damien turned the tables and used the tabloids’ interest in him to drive sympathy toward the Stark Children’s Foundation, a nonprofit he set up to help abused and traumatized children through sports and play therapy.
There’s been more press since our marriage, too, of course. Certainly, our wedding was big news, as was all the publicity and crises surrounding the Resort at Cortez, the island resort that Jackson designed for Stark Real Estate Development—and the project during which Damien—and the press—first learned that Jackson Steele was Damien Stark’s half-brother.
“That’s excellent to hear. And you know that we’re looking at a relatively fast time frame. You’ll be working with a team?”
“I will,” I say, and I fight to keep my smile from faltering. I’d been hesitating to hire additional help until I found out about this job. Unfortunately, now it sounds as if I need the team in place in order to secure the position. “I’m looking at a team of three, including me.” I’m hoping they don’t ask for resumes of my two associates. While I’ve done preliminary interviews and have found a few promising candidates, I haven’t yet made offers to any of them.
“And you’re confident about the time frame? Your recent news doesn’t change anything?”
I frown, confused. “My news?”
He glances again to Bijan, who slides him a manila folder. John opens it, takes out a single sheet of paper, and passes it to me.
It’s a printout from a web page, and the moment I see the headline and the photograph, I freeze.
“Oh,” I say stupidly when I’m once again capable of forming words. “This is—” I swallow and try again, but words aren’t coming. My head is too full of what’s on the paper I’m staring at.
The headline is absurd—Soon a Starkling!—but the photograph is even worse. It’s me, passed out on the lawn of Misty’s house, my head in Damien’s lap.
Suddenly, my whole body ignites as if embarrassment is a bonfire and it’s burning me alive.
But what the hell do I have to be ashamed of? I know enough about photography to know that someone standing across the street took the picture with a long lens. That person should be ashamed—being nosy, selling private photographs.
And the only people who know I’m pregnant are Damien and the staff at the clinic. I’m certain Dr. Cray isn’t the “unnamed source” identified in the article, but I bet the receptionist who didn’t meet my eyes when she passed me a pen to sign out yesterday earned a few extra bucks.
Bitch.
I swallow, draw a breath, and meet John’s and Bijan’s eyes in turn. “I didn’t realize any of this had made the papers.”
“So it’s true.” The two men exchange a glance. “We’re concerned that your pregnancy may impact our timetable. Not the quality of the work,” he hurries to add. “But I’m sure you understand that we’re on a tight schedule. And with a pregnancy, things aren’t always certain. You could end up on bed rest.”
“I won’t end up on bed rest,” I insist, but I see him glance down at the paper. At the image of me on the ground. You hadn’t expected to pass out, either, he seems to be saying. So how can you possibly know what’s to come?
I stand, though I feel decidedly unsteady, and the fact that I’m so off balance pisses me off. Especially since when I entered this office, I believed I had the job nailed down.
Suddenly, I wish I were applying for actual employment. Then they wouldn’t have even been allowed to ask about my pregnancy. But Title VII doesn’t apply to me, and if these men want to hire another candidate because my pregnancy lowers their confidence in me, then that’s their prerogative.
“Gentlemen,” I say, lifting my chin. “You’ve seen my work. You’ve reviewed my proposal. I have every confidence that Fairchild Development can get this project in on time, under budget, and with exceptional quality. I look forward to hearing from you.”
I nod my head, pick up my satchel, and stride from the office. If nothing else, I want the last goddamn word.
More than that, though, I want to get out of the building before the tears come. Because I can feel them pressing against my eyes, and I jam my finger on the elevator button and hold my breath, praying that neither Bijan nor John follows me out.
Only when I’m safely in the elevator car do I let my body sag and frustration take over. I cry all the way from the thirtieth floor to the lobby, and when I step out, I wipe away my tears, lift my head, and go to meet my driver.
If he can tell that I’ve been crying, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he opens the door for me and says simply, “Back to the hotel, Mrs. Stark?”
“Yes,” I say, then immediately contradict myself. “No, actually. There’s somewhere I want to go first.”
I’m in a funk as the driver maneuvers the Dallas streets, and not just about the possibility of losing this contract. No, that’s only one tiny blip on a much larger radar screen.
The truth is that even though I’ve been front and center in the press ever since I started dating Damien, I still haven’t developed the knack of knowing what’s going to trigger tabloid interest. And it never once occurred to me that this pregnancy would be news.
Or, not news, but gossip. The kind of gossip that sells magazines, makes the rounds on social media, and has over-eager paparazzi gathering outside my office or trailing my car or lingering near the gate to our Malibu property.
I made the decision to put up with it when I married Damien, and I’ve become much more adept at handling the press. For the most part, they don’t even bother us anymore. We’d been in the spotlight when the news leaked that Damien had paid me a cool million to pose nude for a portrait, of course. And then again when he’d been arrested for murder—and when the charges were dropped.
Later, they’d been in our face yet again when Damien had decided to publicly reveal the history of abuse that his tennis coach had inflicted on him for so many years. That’s when Damien turned the tables and used the tabloids’ interest in him to drive sympathy toward the Stark Children’s Foundation, a nonprofit he set up to help abused and traumatized children through sports and play therapy.
There’s been more press since our marriage, too, of course. Certainly, our wedding was big news, as was all the publicity and crises surrounding the Resort at Cortez, the island resort that Jackson designed for Stark Real Estate Development—and the project during which Damien—and the press—first learned that Jackson Steele was Damien Stark’s half-brother.
