Chapter 8 - The Woman in the PhotographThe article should have died.
Instead it multiplied.
By Monday morning, 17 sites had used my photograph.
One identified me as “a Manhattan-based designer attached to Blackwood’s Boston redevelopment.”
Another called me Adrian’s “new companion.”
A third had somehow found an old university photograph in which I wore a sequined cowboy hat at age 20.
That was the one I considered a human rights violation.
Gregory called at 7:12.
“I assume you’ve seen the news.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me you’re not sleeping with the client.”
“I am not sleeping with the client.”
“Good.”
A pause.
“Are you planning to?”
“Gregory!”
“I’m asking because legal will ask.”
“No.”
“Excellent.”
Another pause.
“Should I congratulate you?”
I hung up.
When I arrived at Blackwood Tower, Miles met me in the lobby.
“You look homicidal.”
“There’s a photograph of me wearing a sequined cowboy hat.”
“I saw.”
“Delete the internet.”
“We explored the option.”
“I hate you.”
He pressed the elevator sensor.
“Mr. Blackwood is worse.”
“How?”
“Someone photographed you.”
“That makes him angry?”
“Very.”
“Why?”
Miles gave me a look.
I understood.
Adrian cared.
The realization was far too warm.
The elevator reached 48.
This time Adrian stood behind his desk with 2 lawyers.
A communications director.
And Daniel.
Everyone turned when I entered.
“This feels cheerful.”
Adrian dismissed the others with a glance.
Miles stayed.
I sat.
“What happens now?”
“We release nothing,” Adrian said.
“Good.”
“The press has no confirmation.”
“Also good.”
“Your firm is concerned about conflict.”
“Gregory called.”
“I know.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes.”
My eyes narrowed.
“Without asking me?”
“I told him your assignment remains based on performance and contractual continuity.”
“That was my conversation to have.”
His jaw tightened.
“You’re right.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“You’re right.”
Miles looked up from his notebook as though witnessing a solar eclipse.
Adrian ignored him.
“I should have asked.”
The apology disarmed me more effectively than any explanation.
“Okay.”
He continued.
“But there’s another issue.”
“What?”
Daniel placed a folder on the desk.
Inside were printed screenshots.
Anonymous messages.
Comments.
Photographs of me leaving my hotel.
One image of my mother’s house in Connecticut.
All warmth disappeared from my body.
“What is this?”
“The article increased attention,” Adrian said.
“How did they get my mother’s house?”
“Property records.”
I stared.
“This is insane.”
“Yes.”
One message read:
Enjoy the money while it lasts.
Another:
Girls like you always know what they’re doing.
I closed the folder.
“Stop.”
Adrian’s face had become stone.
“Daniel will assign someone to you.”
“No.”
“Eve.”
“No.”
“This isn’t negotiable.”
I stood.
“It absolutely is.”
“There are people photographing your family home.”
“And your solution is to put security on me without permission?”
“My solution is to reduce risk.”
“Your world creates the risk.”
Silence.
That landed.
Miles looked at the floor.
Adrian’s eyes changed.
“You’re right.”
Again.
But this time there was pain under it.
I softened.
“I’m not blaming you.”
“You should.”
“I chose dinner.”
“You didn’t choose this.”
“No.”
I sat again.
“Neither did you.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Finally I said, “One person. Discreet. Until this dies down.”
Daniel nodded.
Adrian said nothing.
“Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“Say something.”
His voice lowered.
“I dislike situations I can’t control.”
“I noticed.”
“This is one.”
I studied him.
“What do you usually do?”
“Apply more control.”
“And how is that working emotionally?”
Miles made a choking sound.
Adrian gave him a lethal look.
Miles left.
I laughed despite everything.
Later that afternoon, I called my mother.
I had avoided telling her.
She already knew.
“Mina sent me the article.”
“Of course she did.”
“Very handsome.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“He’s my client.”
“That explains the expensive coat.”
“What coat?”
“The one you’re wearing in the photograph.”
I closed my eyes.
“It was cold.”
“So he gave you his coat.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“Preston was simple.”
I leaned against the conference table.
“You never liked him.”
“I liked him.”
“You tolerated him.”
“That too.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You loved him.”
“I thought I did.”
“Yes.”
Her voice softened.
“Children must discover certain disappointments themselves, Evelyn. Otherwise they only resent the person who warned them.”
I stared out at the harbor.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“How did you know Dad was right?”
Silence.
Then:
“I didn’t.”
“That’s comforting.”
She laughed.
“I knew he was kind when no one important was watching.”
I thought of Adrian in the elevator.
Of the salad without walnuts.
Of the fact that he had stayed across the room in my hotel until I invited him closer.
“Does kindness count if someone owns 3 private jets?”
“Private jets are morally neutral, darling.”
I laughed.
After work, I found Adrian in the lobby.
Alone.
That was unusual.
“No security?”
“Daniel is with you.”
“Technically he is 20 feet behind me pretending to read a fire-safety sign.”
Daniel did not look around.
Adrian’s mouth curved.
“Walk with me.”
We left through a private exit.
The cold bit through my scarf.
We walked toward the waterfront.
“I spoke to my mother,” I said.
“Is she safe?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“She called you handsome.”
Adrian nearly tripped.
I smiled.
“That disturbed you more than the elevator.”
“I wasn’t prepared.”
“You apparently need scenario planning.”
We reached the edge of the harbor.
Water moved black beneath the lights.
Adrian leaned against the railing.
“My father blamed me.”
I looked at him.
“For your mother?”
“Yes.”
The sentence came without warning.
I said nothing.
“He was supposed to be in the elevator. He sent me with her instead because he took a phone call.”
My chest tightened.
“After she died, he told me that if I hadn’t insisted on leaving early, she would still be alive.”
“You were 11.”
“I know.”
“Adrian.”
“I know.”
But his face told me some part of him did not.
“My father spent the next 7 years teaching me that attachment makes people weak. I eventually became better at the lesson than he was.”
“Is he alive?”
“No.”
“Do you miss him?”
“No.”
The immediate answer made me ache.
“What do you miss?”
He stared at the water.
“My mother’s voice.”
I stepped closer.
Not touching him yet.
“What did she sound like?”
His jaw shifted.
“Warm.”
“That’s vague.”
“She sang badly.”
I smiled.
“So does mine.”
“She liked old French songs. She forgot lyrics and replaced them with whatever words came into her head.”
He almost smiled.
“I used to pretend it embarrassed me.”
“But you liked it.”
“Yes.”
I reached for his hand.
He let me.
We stood beside the harbor holding hands like ordinary people.
For several minutes neither spoke.
Then I noticed a flash across the street.
Camera.
Adrian saw it too.
His entire expression changed.
Daniel moved.
But before he could reach us, Adrian released my hand.
The gesture was instinctive.
Protective, perhaps.
Still, it hurt.
The photographer ran.
Daniel followed.
I looked at Adrian.
“You let go.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So they wouldn’t photograph—”
He stopped.
“Us?”
His silence answered.
I nodded slowly.
“I understand.”
But I didn’t.
Not emotionally.
Something closed inside me.
“I should go.”
“Eve.”
“It’s fine.”
“No.”
“You were protecting me.”
“Yes.”
“By making it look like there was nothing to protect.”
He stared at me.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s what you did.”
I walked away before he could answer.
That night, no text came.
Not at 9.
Not at 10.
Not at 11.
I told myself I preferred it.
At 12:14, someone knocked.
I opened the hotel door.
No one stood there.
Only a small paper bag on the floor.
Inside was a slice of tiramisu.
And a note written in precise black ink.
I let go because I was afraid my world would hurt you.
That does not mean I wanted to.
I read it 5 times.
Then turned the note over.
May you like
One more line.
I am beginning to suspect those are different things.
