The Tabloid
1586 Words
The morning after Tiffany was fired, Olivia Carter learned what it meant to be Mrs Blackwood.
She woke up at six in her huge bedroom in the penthouse. Outside her window, Manhattan was already awake, cars moving like tiny lights. Her phone had twenty missed calls from unknown numbers and three messages from Mia that said GIRL YOU ARE ON PAGE SIX.
Page Six. The gossip section of the New York Post. She had never been on Page Six in her life. She was a girl from Queens who worked at a diner.
She opened i********:. Her name was trending. Intern to wife in twenty four hours. Who is Olivia Carter. Is Ethan Blackwood married. Gold digger from Queens.
Her hands started shaking.
At seven, Rosa arrived with breakfast and a kind smile.
"You saw the internet?" Rosa asked softly.
"I saw," Olivia whispered.
"Do not read it. Internet is mean. Mister Ethan says you should not read it."
"Where is Mister Ethan?"
"In his office, shouting at lawyers since five in the morning. He is protecting you."
At seven fifteen, Ethan came out, in a black tuxedo, bow tie in his hand, hair still wet from shower, looking tired and angry and handsome at the same time.
"We have a charity gala tonight at the Metropolitan Museum," he said without hello. "My grandmother's charity. Five hundred people. Press will be there. We must go together. It is our first public appearance as husband and wife."
"A gala?" Olivia said, her voice small. "Tonight? I cannot. The internet says I am a gold digger. They will all stare at me."
"Let them stare," he said. "That is why we go. To show them you are my wife and I do not care what they think."
"I do not have anything to wear to a gala."
"You have a closet full of clothes you refused to wear. Pick one. Red one."
"The red one has a slit up to my thigh. I will fall."
"You will not fall. I will hold you."
He said it like a promise, simple and firm, and her cheeks got hot.
At six that evening, Rosa helped her get ready. The red dress was silk and soft and it hugged her body like it was made for her. It had a slit that showed her leg when she walked and a back that showed her shoulders. Rosa put the diamond necklace around her neck, the one that cost more than her apartment building, and diamond earrings that matched.
Olivia looked in the mirror and did not recognize herself. She looked like a woman from Manhattan, not a girl from Queens. She looked beautiful and scared.
"Do not be scared," Rosa whispered, squeezing her hands. "You are more beautiful than any of them because you have a good heart. That you cannot buy."
At seven thirty, Ethan knocked.
"Ready, Mrs Blackwood?"
She opened the door.
He was standing there in a perfect black tuxedo, white shirt, black bow tie, hair perfect. He looked like a prince from a movie. When he saw her in the red dress, diamonds sparkling, hair down in soft waves, his mouth opened a little and then closed. His eyes went dark and slow, from her face to her neck to the red silk to the slit showing her leg.
"Olivia," he said, his voice rough, low.
"Is it too much?" she asked, twisting her hands, nervous.
"No. It is perfect. You are perfect."
"Fake wife perfect or real perfect?"
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell his cologne, clean and warm.
"Do not ask questions you do not want the answer to, Mrs Blackwood."
"And what does that mean, Mister Blackwood?"
"It means you look so beautiful tonight that I am going to have a hard time remembering rule two."
Rule two. No intimacy.
Her heart started beating fast. "Then you better remember it harder."
"I am trying," he said, and offered his arm. "Shall we?"
The Metropolitan Museum was covered in red carpet and lights and photographers shouting.
"Mister Blackwood, over here. Mister Blackwood, is this your new wife? Mister Blackwood, how long have you been married?"
Ethan got out first, then held out his hand for Olivia. She took it, red dress flowing, diamonds flashing, and stepped out into a storm of flashes.
Inside, the ballroom was huge, with flowers everywhere, orchestra playing, five hundred people in gowns and tuxedos, all turning to stare at the billionaire who had secretly married his intern.
"Everyone is looking at me," Olivia whispered, leaning close to Ethan, her hand tight on his arm.
"Good. Let them look. You are my wife. Hold your head up," he whispered back, his hand on her lower back, warm and steady.
Eleanor was at their table, wearing pink and pearls, clapping when she saw Olivia.
"Olivia darling, red is definitely your color. I told Ethan. Did he tell you he picked that dress himself? He has good taste when it comes to you."
Olivia glanced at Ethan. He was suddenly very interested in his water glass, ears pink.
"You picked this dress?" she whispered to him as they sat.
"Rosa picked it. I just approved," he muttered.
"Liar," she whispered, smiling.
Dinner started. Tiny plates of food that looked like art. Olivia tried to eat but her stomach was in knots.
Then a man with a press badge and a microphone came to their table, with a camera behind him. He smiled, but it was not a kind smile.
"Mister Blackwood, a quick question for Page Six. Is this your wife? Can you confirm you married your intern last Saturday after knowing her only one week? Is that true?"
The table went quiet. Nearby tables went quiet. People leaned in to listen.
Ethan stood up slowly, pulling Olivia up with him, arm around her waist, holding her close.
"This is my wife, Olivia Blackwood," he said, his voice loud, clear, cold, carrying across the ballroom. "We married privately. Our private life is private."
"And Miss Carter, is it true you were facing eviction in Queens and your mother needs eighty seven thousand dollars for surgery? Did you marry Mister Blackwood for money? Is this marriage a contract?"
Olivia felt all blood leave her face. Her hand went cold in Ethan's. How did he know about the eighty seven thousand dollars? How did he know about eviction? That information was only in her file, in Ethan's office.
Ethan's arm around her turned to iron. His gray eyes turned to ice that could cut.
"Who told you that?" Ethan asked, his voice so low and dangerous the reporter stepped back.
"Sources, Mister Blackwood. Anonymous sources from your office say -"
"My wife's mother is not your business. My wife is not a contract. My wife is my wife. If you print one word about her mother, I will buy your newspaper and fire you tomorrow morning. Do you understand me?"
The reporter swallowed hard, nodding, backing away.
"Good. Now get out."
The reporter ran. But the damage was done. The whole ballroom was whispering now. Gold digger. Contract. Eighty seven thousand dollars.
Olivia stood there shaking, tears burning her eyes, red dress feeling suddenly too tight, diamonds too heavy.
Ethan turned to her, his face instantly soft, all cold gone.
"Hey," he whispered, his hands on her shoulders, his forehead almost touching hers, right there in front of five hundred people. "Look at me. Only at me. Not at them."
"I cannot breathe," she whispered.
"Yes you can. Breathe with me. In. Out. In. Out."
She breathed with him, his hands warm on her bare shoulders, his eyes only on her.
"They think I married you for money," she whispered, tears falling now. "And they are right. I did. I signed for one hundred thousand dollars."
"You signed because you love your mother and you are brave," he said fiercely, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his touch gentle, breaking rule two right there in front of everyone. "And I asked you. I begged you. Do not forget that part, Olivia. I needed you. I still need you."
"Fake need or real need?" she asked, her voice breaking.
He stared at her, his thumb still on her cheek, his eyes dark and full of something she had never seen before, something that looked like want and fear mixed together.
"Do not ask me that tonight, Mrs Blackwood," he said quietly. "Because tonight I might tell you the truth."
From across the ballroom, by the bar, a woman in a white dress that looked almost like a wedding dress watched them. Blonde hair perfect, blue eyes cold, body like a model, which she was. Vanessa Hart. Ethan's ex fiancée. The supermodel who still had a key to his penthouse.
She held a glass of champagne and smiled, a slow cruel smile, and raised her glass to Olivia.
Then she mouthed two words across the room that only Olivia could see.
"Gold digger."
Olivia's blood ran cold and her hand tightened on Ethan's arm.
Ethan did not see Vanessa. He was still looking at Olivia, still holding her face, still breaking all his own rules.
But Vanessa saw them both. And she had already called her friend at the New York Post with a photo of Olivia's eviction notice from Queens.
Tomorrow morning, that photo would be on the front page.
And Olivia's mother in Queens, recovering from surgery, would see it.
- Writer
