The show staff filed into the room. In general, they were all slightly rumpled looking. Rick Chabot, the producer of Feeding Frenzy, introduced himself and his coproducers, assistant producers and executive assistants-seriously, how many people were in this entourage?
Finally, all the hands were shaken and they all sat down, Marcus and Liberty at one end of the table, Chabot and his crew at the other. "Now," Chabot said in a different tone from the one he had just used to introduce half of Hollywood. Marcus shot Liberty a look, but all she did was shrug. Chabot was studying his own tablet. "Let's get down to business. You and Ms. Reese are a couple, is that correct?"
"Yes," Marcus said in what he hoped was a casual voice. He'd just spent five minutes introducing her as his assistant. Where the hell had this guy gotten that information?
"That's going to be a problem for Feeding Frenzy," Chabot went on, without bothering to look up. One of his group tapped his arm and tilted a screen in his direction. Chabot nodded and continued. "Gotta be honest with you, Warren-part of your appeal is your availability. You're hot, you're rich-you've got to be single for this show. Someone with her background isn't going to send the right signals to our target viewers, especially not women."
"Excuse me? What background?" He looked at Liberty and was surprised to see that she'd turned a ghastly shade of green.
Chabot studied his tablet before turning a critical eye on Liberty. "Is this correct? Your mother was a convicted drug mule and hooker? She died of an overdose?"
A different person leaned over and pointed at the screen. "Is that a picture of Liberty with her mother? But is she...?" The producer turned the tablet around so that Marcus could see the photo of a young girl, clearly Liberty, standing in front of an apartment building with a gaunt-looking, light-skinned African American woman.
There was a moment of total silence. Marcus knew he needed to say something-it was completely unnecessary to blindside Liberty like this. And it was patently untrue.
Except...
Except Liberty wasn't denying it. She wasn't doing anything-maybe not even breathing. If everything Chabot had just said had been a lie, Liberty would have laughed it off. She wouldn't just be sitting there, looking as if she'd been shot.
Because it wasn't a lie, Marcus realized.
"Where are you getting your information?" Liberty managed to ask in a strangled voice.
"We received an email," Chabot said. "We vet all our candidates thoroughly so we followed up." For the first time, he looked up at Liberty. "It's not personal, you understand."
"No, of course not," she mumbled.
"Now-you have a child you gave up for adoption, is that correct?"
That got an immediate response out of her. "What? No."
Chabot scrolled. "A boy named William? Is that not correct?"
Marcus gaped at her. She couldn't possibly-could she have?
"I do not have a child," Liberty said firmly. "Your source is mistaken."
"We're selling a specific image here-wealthy, powerful," Chabot went on as though Marcus gave a flying rat's ass for what he was saying. "Now, if you two were already married, that might be one thing, but if we're going to take this to the next level..."
He said other things about image and selling, but Marcus didn't hear him. All he could do was stare at Liberty. She did not meet his gaze.
Her mother was African American? An addict? And a hooker? Why hadn't she told him? She couldn't possibly think that it mattered to him, could she? Or had there been another reason she'd kept that part of her hidden?
No, not even hidden. She'd lied to him. And for what? She had to realize that her race was a nonissue to him. But what would she have gained by making him think she was something she wasn't?
I'm not good for you. That's what she'd said, over and over. All those times she'd tried to convince him not to take her to the wedding? Not to do this stupid reality show?
Was this what she'd tried to tell him? Was this what he'd said didn't matter?
"...market share," Chabot was saying. "And you can be listed as a producer, of course."
He'd rather gouge out his eye with a rusty spoon. "Well," Marcus said, standing up before he quite knew what he was doing. Because this mattered. This history-he couldn't wrap his head around it. He'd thought...well, he'd thought wrong.
All he knew was that there was no way in hell he was doing anything that would take him to "the next level." He shuddered at the mere thought. What did that even mean? His face on lunch boxes? Did people even have lunch boxes anymore? He didn't know and he didn't want to find out. "We'll be in touch," he lied. Then he turned on his heel and walked right out of that crowded room.
He didn't know if Liberty followed him and he didn't wait around to find out. He didn't want to hear her excuses. He'd heard it all before-from his mother, from Lillibeth. From everyone who wanted a piece of the Warren name, the Warren fortune-but not him. Never him.
They all told him what they thought he needed to hear. To "protect" him. No doubt Liberty would say the same thing. She'd been trying to protect him from the truth-but why? So it could be used against him? Or had there been something more to it? Something sinister?
Idiot. That's what he was. A fool of the first-class order. Because people always wanted something from him. His money, his power, his body-but not him. Never just him. He'd thought Liberty was different. But was she? She'd pushed back against coming to the wedding with him, against this meeting-and she'd made it sound like it was because she was worried about him.
But he saw the truth. She'd been protecting herself and her secrets. How many more did she have? Was this just the tip of the iceberg?
There was always a cost. Everything was a transaction. And if you didn't gain something you lost.
God, he was tired of being the loser. And this time, it was no one's fault but his own.
He realized he was already outside. He didn't remember walking out of the conference room or down the hall.
"Marcus," Liberty said in a soft voice behind him that, yes, had a tinge of fear to it. He could hear her footfalls now as she hurried to catch up.
He kept going. He had a car around here somewhere, a car with a driver. The guy couldn't have gone far.
"Marcus, wait-please."
He didn't want to. He didn't want to give her another second of his time. But he didn't know where his car was and he had no idea where he was going. The confusion metastasized into rage. This was his fault-because he'd dared to be a real man with her.
He didn't feel as real anymore. "Why?" He turned on her. "Why, Liberty?"
She stood before him, her eyes painfully wide. She looked awful and the foolish part of his brain that hadn't gotten the message that she was not to be trusted, she was not safe-she was just like all the rest-wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her it was going to be all right.
It wasn't, though. So he did no such thing.
"I..." She swallowed, clutching her tablet to her chest. Her bag gaped open on her shoulder. She looked as if she'd run after him. Maybe she had. He didn't care. "I called for the car. He's coming right away."
"That's what you have to say? That's it?"
"I didn't-we should-" Her back stiffened. "Can we at least wait for the car? If I'm going to be humiliated for the second time in less than an hour, at least I'd like it to be in private."
"Oh, yes-sure. We wouldn't want any more public humiliations, would we?"
For a moment, he thought she was going to bend. Her chin dropped and her shoulders hunched and she looked small and vulnerable.
Fine. Good. She could just look that way. It was a trick, a play on his feelings. Well, he'd show her. He'd stop having feelings. That was his mistake; he saw that now. He'd allowed himself to care about someone. Her. He should have learned his lesson after Lillibeth a little better.
But then Liberty rallied. She straightened up and glared at him. "Can we wait for the car, please? Or is it going to make you feel better to put me in my place with an audience?" She glanced around them with an exaggerated motion.
Yes, people were milling around. No one was paying them a lot of attention, though. "You know what? It's not. It's not going to make me feel any better. But how tender of you to pretend you care."
"I do care," she responded, the fire lighting in her eyes. "Don't you dare imply I don't."