"I don't know what you're talking about, mother," I lie. It hasn't even been twenty-four hours, damn it. How could she have found out?
She unleashes a barrage at me over the phone, her voice going higher and higher the more she talks. "I knew it was a bad idea to let you go to your father's house," she yells. "With that washed-up model wife of his and that filthy son. I just didn't expect you to behave like a stupid little slut."
"Don't talk about them that way." My voice sounds small, my protest meager, and the room feels like it's spinning. I watch as people pass by me, walking quickly to wherever they're going. They're meeting loved ones, having joyful reunion s, and I suddenly miss Gaige.
Why did I just leave? I could have gone to him and told him how I felt. I could have told him how I feel – present tense. Or how I think I feel.
The thing is that I'm not sure about anything, and Gaige most of all. And I'm definitely not sure Gaige feels the same way about me.
"You will get on the next flight back to Manhattan," my mother says. "I've hired someone who fixes these things, someone who will do damage control. You're ill and you're going to rehab. And you're never going back to your father's place again. You will not see that boy again. Do you hear me?"
I can't help but hear her. Her voice sounds unreasonably loud on the phone, ringing in my ear as I stand there motionless. A couple passes me, the man and woman holding their young daughter's hands. "That's not going to happen, mother," I say. "I'm not coming back to Manhattan. I'm not going to rehab. And I'll see whoever I want."
My mother screeches and I hang up the phone, feeling strangely disconnected from everything, as if I'm having an out-of-body experience. In the cab on the way to my father's house, I feel oddly numb as I watch the scenery fly by in a blur.
When we arrive at the house, I don't even register the location for a moment. I'm tempted to tell the driver to leave the car running, because I may be back out the door in a few minutes. Fired and probably disowned.
But I don't. I walk numbly down the hallway, and one of the housekeepers greets me with a terse look. "Ms. Marlowe," she says. "We weren't expecting you until tomorrow morning."
"I'm back early," I say. As if that offers an explanation for everything. "Is my father here, or at the office?"
Teresa shakes her head. "It's not so good," she says. "He's in the study, but you shouldn't - "
Crap. So he's heard, and if the staff already knows, that means it's even worse than I thought. I smooth the fabric of my skirt as if doing so will make me somehow presentable and professional.
As if that will somehow erase everything that's happened.
I walk down the hallway to my father's study, resigned to my fate, and knock on the door.
"Come in," he says, and I can tell his voice is strained even before I pull open the door. He's sitting in the corner of the room in his leather armchair, drinking a glass of scotch. Just sitting there. No work, no book, no computer, nothing.
My heart sinks. This is a lot worse than I thought.
"Delaney," he says. The way he looks at me, disappointment and pain in his eyes, makes my heart break. I've never seen him look at me like this.
"I know you've heard what happened, but I can explain," I say, my voice rushed and rambling as I step inside the office. As soon as I open my mouth, my words gather momentum, spiraling out of control. "Chelsea set us up, told Akira-san something, I don't know what, that we were sick maybe, because she wanted a job with him, I think? I'm not sure. She hates me. She's hated me since the beginning and I didn't want to say anything because I wanted to stand on my own at Marlowe. Even if it's your company, and you're my father. And then we walked off the elevator and Chelsea and Akira were right there and it was –"
My father holds up his hand, halting me. "I know," he says. "Gaige told me the whole story already. He explained everything."
"He did?" I ask. "But – I don't understand. He's still in Tokyo. Or…on a flight. I came back early."
"He sent an email," he says. "It was all in the email."
"Do you hate me?" I ask. "You hate me, right? You hate Gaige."
Beau sighs. "Of course I don't hate you."
"But you're – you're sitting here in the office, with the lights out, drinking scotch, and you're – not happy, obviously."
Beau looks at me as he takes another sip of his scotch, his face tired. "Anja left," he says. "We're divorcing. I finally told her to leave."
"Oh my God." I stand there, motionless, my heart pounding in my chest. Shit. It's our fault. "Because of Gaige and I?"