He threw the phone. It hit the thick carpet with a dull thud. He put his head in his hands, the water from his hair dripping onto the floor, merging with the ghost of her presence.
The silence in the penthouse was no longer just an absence of sound. It was a physical presence, a weight that pressed down on him, suffocating. He had stormed in here expecting a fight, a confrontation he could win with logic or a well-timed gift. He had found a vacuum.
His phone vibrated in his wet pocket. It was Burrel.
Video link attached. Boss, this is trending.
Brittain didn’t want to look. He had to look.
He tapped the link. It was a paparazzi video, shaky and grainy, taken outside a dive bar in Queens. It showed Cara standing on a curb, shivering. Brady Roy took off his denim jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
Cara looked up at him. She smiled.
It wasn’t the practiced, red-carpet smile she gave Brittain. It was soft. It was unguarded. It was the kind of smile that reached her eyes and made them crinkle at the corners.
Brittain felt a physical blow to his sternum. She looked relieved.
He threw the phone again.
The next morning, the sun was offensive. It poured into the Austin Media top-floor office, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Brittain sat behind his desk. He hadn’t shaved. There were dark bruises of exhaustion under his eyes. A fresh white bandage was wrapped tightly around his right hand.
The door opened without a knock.
Caryn Newman walked in. She was wearing a white dress, carrying a bento box. She looked like an angel, or what Brittain had convinced himself an angel looked like for the last ten years.
“Brittain,” she said, her voice a soothing coo. “I heard you didn’t go home last night. I made you soup.”
Brittain didn’t look up from the merger documents he wasn’t reading. “I’m working.”
She walked around the desk. She placed her hands on his shoulders, her thumbs digging into the tense muscle.
“You’re tense,” she whispered. “Is this about that little substitute? Did she finally realize she was out of her depth?”
Substitute.
The word hung in the air like a foul odor.
Brittain moved so fast the chair screeched against the floor. He stood up, dislodging her hands. He turned on her, his eyes blazing with a cold, blue fire.
“Get out,” he said.
Caryn blinked, her smile faltering. “Excuse me?”
“You don’t have an appointment,” Brittain said, his voice low and dangerous. “And you don’t get to speak about her. Not in this office. Not ever.”
“Brittain, I’m trying to help…”
“Out,” he roared. “And tell Burrel if he lets anyone up here without a scheduled meeting again, he’s fired.”
Caryn stepped back, clutching the bento box. She looked at him with wide, fearful eyes, realizing for the first time that the pedestal she stood on was shaking. Caryn walked out of the executive suite, her face burning.
