Episode 5 (Boxed In)
1104 Words
The shrill ring of the phone startled Emilia out of the bathroom. Water clung to her lashes as she wiped her face with one hand and grabbed a robe with the other, hurrying barefoot into the living room.
“Hello?” she said, breathless.
A crisp voice snapped back. “Miss Emilia? Is it true you’re in cohorts with the Managing Partner at RKP? Some photos have come to light, along with some rather unsavory commentary about your dalliance with the man himself.”
She froze. “What? Who is this?”
“Susanne. From The Daily Hit. Would you like to confirm or deny these rumors? We’d appreciate any information you can give us regarding your ongoing relationship with Michael Rourke.”
“Michael Rourke? I don’t—”
“We also heard you’re considering getting back together with your ex, Caleb Monroe. Any thoughts? What’s the endgame here—corporate move or social climb?”
Emilia blinked, stunned, then scoffed. “I’d sooner parade the whole Freedom Trail stark naked, crabgrass sprouting from places the sun don’t shine, than crawl back to that two-faced, emotionally constipated, puppy-eyed disaster. That chapter is sealed, buried, and burned in salt.”
A pause. Then, tentatively, “Uhm…may I quote you on that?”
“Be my guest. And get the hell off my line.” She slammed the receiver back onto its cradle, heart pounding.
What the hell was that?
A noise scraped near her window. Still clutching her robe, she moved to the curtain, tugged it aside—and nearly dropped.
Reporters. A horde of them.
Cameras, microphones, media vans clustered outside her home like vultures. One journalist was halfway wedged into her neighbor’s fence.
“You there!” Emilia yanked the window open. “Get off my porch before I personally donate your jaw to medical research!”
At her voice, the frenzy rose.
Then the voices surged. Feet moved. Faces craned upward.
“Miss Emilia! We heard you and Michael Rourke might be eloping.”
“What do you have to say about your brother facing possible prison time?”
The landline rang again. She spun around, hand trembling as she picked it up. “Hello?”
A male voice, eager and fast: “Is it true you’re losing your family’s company in the ongoing lawsuit? And is your brother guilty of—?”
She hung up mid-question, the receiver slapping hard against the cradle.
She staggered back a step, throat tightening.
Emilia ran for her bedroom, grabbed her phone off the bedside table, and quickly dialed her brother.
He answered on the second ring.
“Em!” Jameson’s voice was hushed, frazzled. “I was just about to call you—”
“There are reporters outside my house, Jamie. Swarming. Calling in. What the hell is going on?”
“Well, I was going to ask you. I’m locked in the restroom of some café, hiding from media dogs. They’ve been tailing me. Something about you and Rourke. And Caleb. And the company.”
Emilia sank onto her bed. “Did something happen? You mentioned shareholders were getting angsty. But this…this feels orchestrated.”
There was a beat before Jameson responded. “Dunno. I’ve called my PA and some of our associates. Nobody is saying anything.”
“They’re saying I’m in cohorts with RKP’s MP and Caleb.” She crossed to the other side of the bedroom, yanking the second curtain aside.
More reporters. Camera lenses like staring eyes. A man hoisted onto the roof of a van was adjusting a boom mic in her direction.
“I have to leave in less than an hour. I have a client consult—”
“You might want to cancel,” Jameson was saying, but before he could finish, the call cut off.
“Jamie?” She stared at her screen. Call ended.
The phone rang again. She answered without looking.
“Jamie?”
“Uhh… Sorry to disappoint. It’s Lilah.”
Lilah was the closest thing Emilia had to a best friend. Lilah was the one who helped Emilia set up in New Hampshire after the debacle of Boston.
“Yeah. How are you doing?”
“Heh. How are you?”
“So-so. But listen—Brian called. Said there’s chatter. He thinks they’re reopening the Verixon case.”
“Brian?” Emilia blinked. “Why?”
“He didn’t say. Just that he overheard something at the firm this morning. Something’s happening.”
Brian worked at one of the firms affiliated with Wesley B. If he said something was stirring, it was worth listening to.
“I was cleared,” Emilia said softly, almost to herself. “They can reopen it all they want. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Still,” Lilah pressed, “you’re not just dealing with lawyers. You’re dealing with rich men who hate losing and have the means to dig up ghosts. Be careful.”
“I will. I just hope none of this gets to Mom though.”
“Oh. Your mom. That’s right. Will you call her?”
“If I do, she’ll know something’s off. I’ll wait it out for now.”
“Okay. But keep me posted, alright? And be careful.”
“I will.” Emilia glanced at her bedroom floor where a few rose petals from a previous arrangement had fallen.
She reached for one — dried, translucent, pale as breath — and twirled it between her fingers.
“I might need you to pick me up,” she added. “You’ll have to come through the back.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a client consult—and I can’t leave my house. I’m literally barricaded in by the press.”
“Shoot. I’m locked in a strategy session till 3:30. Can’t break away until then. Is it too late?”
“It’s too late.” Emilia sighed. “But don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”
“And why is the press at your place? Did something happen?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now, I’ve got to find a way out of here.”
“I can just make an excuse…”
“No, no. Don’t go to the trouble. I’ll make do.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s nothing.”
She hung up a few minutes later.
Emilia exhaled—one long, bracing breath, like standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump. Then she opened the drawer beside her bed, pulled out a business card with shaking fingers, and made the call.
- Writer
