The Dirty Series 2(25)
“You ready?” Frank asks, looking directly into my eyes. This is my final chance to back out. I know he’d happily go out and tell the press that there had been a mistake, that there would be no announcement today.
“Let’s get this shit over with.”
He gives me a confident nod, and then we both head toward the front doors.
The sun is hot, beating down on the shoulders of my suit, instantly making me feel like I’m trapped in a furnace.
As we discussed in advance, Frank approaches the podium first. “Christian Pierce of Pierce Industries,” he says simply. The reporters shift their weight from foot to foot. One blogger raises his hand as if he wants to ask Frank a question before this circus has even started, but then decides better of it.
I move to the podium and open the portfolio, sliding the sheet of paper with my remarks—written in a large font in case I lose my ability to see clearly—out of the protective pocket.
I clear my throat, scan the words on the page, then look directly into the ABC7 camera. Conveniently, they’ve positioned themselves right in front of the podium.
I swallow hard.
Everyone holds their breath.
Somewhere across the city, Quinn is watching.
“Good morning,” I begin, my voice confident and clear. “My name is Elijah Pierce. Ten years ago, my brother, Christian Pierce, died of a drug overdose at a party being held to celebrate our eighteenth birthday. At that time, distraught and traumatized, I assumed his identity. I have been using his name and living as Christian Pierce since that time.”
They don’t wait until I read the rest of my statement.
They just start shouting random questions.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Quinn
I’m frozen in place behind my desk, hand covering my mouth, as Christian seems to be looking into my eyes and speaking directly to me through the screen.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice steady, without an ounce of shame. “My name is Elijah Pierce. Ten years ago, my brother, Christian Pierce, died of a drug overdose at a party being held to celebrate our eighteenth birthday. At that time, distraught and traumatized, I assumed his identity. I have been using his name and living as Christian Pierce since that time.”
Holy shit.
The press surrounding him—I can’t see how many people there are because obviously ABC isn’t going to put competitors on camera—pounces the instant Christian stops speaking to take a breath. He tries unsuccessfully to quiet them, and finally his lawyer steps up to the podium, waving them down.
“One question at a time, please,” he calls, once, twice, three times, and finally there’s a semblance of silence.
A woman’s arm, covered by the sleeve of a coral jacket, juts into the frame, holding out a microphone. “Mr. Pierce, why are you revealing this information on broadcast news? Has your family been informed?”
Again, Christian looks right into the camera.
“I wanted the world to know the truth,” he says, and my heart bursts.
“Why did you do it?” pipes up a male voice from somewhere off-camera.
“It was my impression that my father had a closer connection with my brother,” Christian says, not hesitating for a single moment. “In my devastation, I made a snap decision to spare my father the pain of losing his favorite son.”
In another instant, I’m up out of my seat, grabbing for my purse. This time it does tip, spilling half of what’s inside into my desk drawer. The only thing I stop to grab is my wallet, and I shove my phone inside on my way out the door.
For once, I don’t care if people see me rushing.
“I’m going out,” I shout to Adam on my way past his desk, and he does a double take when he sees me moving at such a high speed on three-inch heels. “If Walker asks, you can tell him it was a client emergency.”
That’s what this is, after all. My one and only client has taken it upon himself to schedule and follow through on a press conference during which he has announced information fit to destroy his reputation completely. There’s a good chance I might get fired for this—I’ve seen people let go from HRM for less. All I can do now is rush to the scene of the disaster and try to spin it.
Of course, even as I sprint for the elevator, I know that’s not why I’m fleeing the building.
I’m running to Christian’s side because he did this—all of this—for me.
He didn’t have to tell the world his secret. He didn’t have to hold a press conference and announce it to countless people who happen to be watching the news. He didn’t have to ensure that the story will be picked up by every gossip blog and every news outlet from here to Los Angeles. This is going to be big news, and he refused to use the services of the person hired to manage his reputation.