“Yes?”
“Mr. Sinclair, this is Claire Heart.”
He silently pumped his fist in the air, but kept the excitement out of his voice. He couldn’t let the reporter know that he knew what had been happening in her office today.
“Yes, Miss Heart? What other untruths are you planning on publishing about me and my fiancée next?”
“Uhm, Mr. Sinclair. I’m . . . I’m really sorry. I was trying to reach you earlier, but couldn’t get through. There have been some developments. I’m not going to bore you with the details. But we’ve established that there’s been a case of mistaken identity. We are very sorry for the grief we’ve caused you and your fiancée. In tomorrow’s print edition you’ll find a retraction of the article and an apology by the paper and myself, of course. And the online edition will go live with the story just after midnight.”
“Well . . . ”
“It has all been a terrible mistake. But as you can probably appreciate, sometimes the evidence that is presented to us looks very convincing.”
“I understand, Miss Heart. Thank you for calling.”
He disconnected the call and jumped into the air. “Yes!”
It had worked. Claire Heart and her editor and legal department had swallowed the story he and Holly had fabricated hook, line, and sinker.
Tomorrow, all of New York and the Hamptons would find out that Sabrina wasn’t a call girl. Everything would go back to normal. But he couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Hadn’t the reporter said that the online edition would post the story shortly past midnight?
So what was he still doing here in Montauk? He should be on his way to his condo in Manhattan. Daniel glanced at his watch. If he left now, he’d arrive there just after midnight.
Minutes later, he was sitting in his father’s car, speeding into the night, heading for New York.
***
Even though she was tired from packing, Sabrina couldn’t sleep, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she sat in the living room. Only a small lamp burned in one corner. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan sparkled like a thousand raindrops cascading over a mirror. It wasn’t raining though; it was Sabrina’s tears causing the skyline of Manhattan to appear blurred.
“It’s for the best,” she murmured to herself. “It’s for you.” She laid her hand over her stomach. She had to remain strong for her child. She didn’t want it to be born into a community that shunned her parents. She’d rather disappear to somewhere where nobody knew her and raise the child on her own.
A sob tore from her chest. If only she were stronger and wouldn’t miss Daniel so much. Another sob followed. More of them ripped from her chest and just wouldn’t stop. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
“Don’t cry.”
Sabrina shrieked and whirled around, jumping up instantly. She hadn’t heard the apartment door over her sobs.
Even in the relative dark of the room, she recognized him immediately. “Daniel,” she managed to say.
Then he reached her and pulled her against his chest. She wanted to protest, but she was too weak.
“I’m here now,” he murmured into her hair.
“It won’t change anything.” She pushed against him and eased away. He let it happen, and she was disappointed that he did.
His hands moved and suddenly another light source illuminated his face as he stared down at an iPad. He handed it to her. “Read this.”
“What is this?”
“Just read it,” he demanded. “Please.”
Compelled by the tenderness in his eyes, she looked down at the screen. The first thing she saw was a photo of herself, though on closer inspection she knew it couldn’t be she: the hair style was completely wrong, and the top the woman wore didn’t belong to Sabrina either.
Her eyes dropped to the line below the picture. Ms. Sharon Helmer it said.
Then she read the headline: Correction.
Below it only a few lines were written.
On the 18th of this month, this paper published a story about Mr. Daniel Sinclair and Miss Sabrina Palmer. The information presented to the Times as the basis of this story has proven to be false. In fact, a Miss Sharon Helmer, pictured, has been mistaken for Miss Palmer. Miss Palmer is in no way connected to any escort service and there is no evidence that Mr. Sinclair, her fiancé, has ever used the services of an escort agency. We would like to extend our deepest apologies and sincerest regrets to Mr. Daniel Sinclair and Miss Sabrina Palmer and their families.
Sabrina lifted her head.
“Mr. Sinclair, this is Claire Heart.”
He silently pumped his fist in the air, but kept the excitement out of his voice. He couldn’t let the reporter know that he knew what had been happening in her office today.
“Yes, Miss Heart? What other untruths are you planning on publishing about me and my fiancée next?”
“Uhm, Mr. Sinclair. I’m . . . I’m really sorry. I was trying to reach you earlier, but couldn’t get through. There have been some developments. I’m not going to bore you with the details. But we’ve established that there’s been a case of mistaken identity. We are very sorry for the grief we’ve caused you and your fiancée. In tomorrow’s print edition you’ll find a retraction of the article and an apology by the paper and myself, of course. And the online edition will go live with the story just after midnight.”
“Well . . . ”
“It has all been a terrible mistake. But as you can probably appreciate, sometimes the evidence that is presented to us looks very convincing.”
“I understand, Miss Heart. Thank you for calling.”
He disconnected the call and jumped into the air. “Yes!”
It had worked. Claire Heart and her editor and legal department had swallowed the story he and Holly had fabricated hook, line, and sinker.
Tomorrow, all of New York and the Hamptons would find out that Sabrina wasn’t a call girl. Everything would go back to normal. But he couldn’t wait till tomorrow. Hadn’t the reporter said that the online edition would post the story shortly past midnight?
So what was he still doing here in Montauk? He should be on his way to his condo in Manhattan. Daniel glanced at his watch. If he left now, he’d arrive there just after midnight.
Minutes later, he was sitting in his father’s car, speeding into the night, heading for New York.
***
Even though she was tired from packing, Sabrina couldn’t sleep, so she didn’t even try. Instead, she sat in the living room. Only a small lamp burned in one corner. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan sparkled like a thousand raindrops cascading over a mirror. It wasn’t raining though; it was Sabrina’s tears causing the skyline of Manhattan to appear blurred.
“It’s for the best,” she murmured to herself. “It’s for you.” She laid her hand over her stomach. She had to remain strong for her child. She didn’t want it to be born into a community that shunned her parents. She’d rather disappear to somewhere where nobody knew her and raise the child on her own.
A sob tore from her chest. If only she were stronger and wouldn’t miss Daniel so much. Another sob followed. More of them ripped from her chest and just wouldn’t stop. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose.
“Don’t cry.”
Sabrina shrieked and whirled around, jumping up instantly. She hadn’t heard the apartment door over her sobs.
Even in the relative dark of the room, she recognized him immediately. “Daniel,” she managed to say.
Then he reached her and pulled her against his chest. She wanted to protest, but she was too weak.
“I’m here now,” he murmured into her hair.
“It won’t change anything.” She pushed against him and eased away. He let it happen, and she was disappointed that he did.
His hands moved and suddenly another light source illuminated his face as he stared down at an iPad. He handed it to her. “Read this.”
“What is this?”
“Just read it,” he demanded. “Please.”
Compelled by the tenderness in his eyes, she looked down at the screen. The first thing she saw was a photo of herself, though on closer inspection she knew it couldn’t be she: the hair style was completely wrong, and the top the woman wore didn’t belong to Sabrina either.
Her eyes dropped to the line below the picture. Ms. Sharon Helmer it said.
Then she read the headline: Correction.
Below it only a few lines were written.
On the 18th of this month, this paper published a story about Mr. Daniel Sinclair and Miss Sabrina Palmer. The information presented to the Times as the basis of this story has proven to be false. In fact, a Miss Sharon Helmer, pictured, has been mistaken for Miss Palmer. Miss Palmer is in no way connected to any escort service and there is no evidence that Mr. Sinclair, her fiancé, has ever used the services of an escort agency. We would like to extend our deepest apologies and sincerest regrets to Mr. Daniel Sinclair and Miss Sabrina Palmer and their families.
Sabrina lifted her head.
