If I Could Hate You

Chapter 15: Rumors and Realities

The first thing I heard that morning was the loud creak of my bedroom door being flung open, followed by Natalie’s voice echoing like a trumpet.

“Good morning, my little celebrity!” she sang, dragging the word celebrity with a dramatic flair.

I groaned, pulling the covers higher over my head, only to peek out as she strutted in with her usual infectious energy. Her curly hair bounced with each step, and she had on her travel sweats with a ridiculously oversized hoodie. She looked as though she had just woken up, yet somehow she already radiated the kind of energy I could only muster after three cups of coffee.

“Celebrity?” I muttered, sitting up slowly with a yawn. “That’s a new one. What’s the cause?”

Natalie grinned like a cat with a secret, holding her phone high in the air as though she had just caught the Holy Grail. “Cause? Oh nothing big, just the fact that your face is plastered on every news site, gossip page, and entertainment blog. You, my darling Sophia, should probably start charging appearance fees.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. “What?”

Before I could stop her, she tossed her phone onto my lap. I dragged it toward me with desperate speed, my fingers trembling as I scrolled through the headlines.

“Scandal within Scandal: Michael FitzGerald Comforts Mystery Woman at Crime Scene.”

“Heir of FitzGerald Empire Hugging Secret Lover? Romance Rumors Swirl Amid Violence.”

“Who Is She? The Woman Who Made Michael FitzGerald’s Guard Drop.”

Dozens of articles, each more dramatic than the last, with images of me and Michael at the bloody scene. My tear-stained face was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around me. What the camera did not capture was the fact that I had been terrified, that the hug had been one of survival and instinct rather than romance. To the public, it looked intimate, romantic, scandalous.

“Oh no, no no no no,” I whispered, shoving the phone back into Natalie’s hands as if it were a burning coal. My own phone was already buzzing furiously on the nightstand, and when I picked it up, I froze at the sight of dozens of missed calls from unknown numbers, all from last night and this morning.

Natalie leaned over my shoulder with her ever-curious grin. “Must be the press. Guess that explains why you went radio silent last night. Is that why you barely chatted with me? Or were you too busy cozying up to your new billionaire boyfriend?”

She said it jokingly, with that playful lilt in her tone, but I could not laugh. My stomach twisted as the events of yesterday resurfaced—the bloody writing on the wall, the worker’s crucified body, the overwhelming stench of death. My panic attack. And then the moment I fell into Michael’s arms like a helpless child.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” I said softly. “I was just… tired. Yesterday was a lot.”

Natalie dropped the teasing tone at once, sensing the shift in my voice. She sat down beside me on the bed, crossing her legs, her eyes gentle now. “Tell me.”

And I did. I told her everything, my words spilling out in uneven waves. I explained the panic attack, how the sight of all that blood had ripped open old wounds I thought I had buried. How my legs had given out and I collapsed against Michael, unable to breathe. How he had held me, steadied me, while the rest of the world blurred.

Natalie’s hand found mine and squeezed. “Soph…” Her voice was quiet, tender, as though she were holding me with her words alone. “I am so sorry you had to go through that again.”

For a long moment we sat in silence, my chest rising and falling unevenly while her thumb rubbed circles into my hand. It was moments like these that reminded me why Natalie had always been more than just a friend. She was family.

I forced a small laugh, trying to cut through the heaviness. “And that, my dear, is how the press got their precious picture. A breakdown disguised as romance.”

“Well, they got one thing right,” she said with a sly grin. “It was very romantic. Scandalous even.”

“Nat!” I swatted her arm.

She leaned back on the bed, hands behind her head, her grin widening. “So, you are sure nothing is going on with you and the hot, chiseled hunk that is Michael FitzGerald?”

I flushed, my face heating against my will. I tried to mask it, but Natalie knew me better than anyone alive. Her laughter bubbled out like champagne.

“You don’t even need to answer,” she said, still laughing. “That face tells me everything I need to know.”

“There was something ish,” I admitted quietly, my words stumbling out, “but I don’t think there’s anything anymore.”

Natalie wiggled her eyebrows dramatically. “Something ish. That’s already enough. Girl, I knew it!”

I grabbed a pillow and hurled it at her, but she caught it midair, laughing so hard she nearly fell off the bed. Before she could press further, I quickly shifted the conversation with all the speed and grace of a person escaping disaster.

“Enough about me,” I said in a rush. “You have been away for months. Tell me about you, about your trip, everything. Start from the beginning. I need to hear all the details.”

Natalie perked up at once, the spotlight now on her. She leaned forward with sparkling eyes. “Well, let us just say it was awesome. And I may or may not have met a man.”

My eyes widened. “No way.”

“Yes way.” She whipped out her phone and scrolled quickly before thrusting it toward me. “His name is Shane. Look at him. Just look.”

I gasped as the photo lit up her screen. “Oh my gosh, Nat. You are not lying. He is ridiculously hot.”

“Right? He is like the lead from one of those romance movies, but better. He’s funny, charming, and guess what—he can cook!”

We dissolved into laughter and girl talk, the kind of silly, endless chatter that stretched back to our childhood sleepovers. She told me about her adventures abroad, the strange foods she had tried, the breathtaking places she had visited. Her stories filled the room with warmth, making me forget for a brief moment about the weight pressing on my shoulders.

“You really need to get yourself a man, Soph,” Natalie teased between bites of the chocolate bar she had pulled from her bag. “They are the best way to have fun and pass time. Highly recommend.”

I laughed so hard I nearly choked. “Trust me, the last thing I need right now is a man.”

We were still laughing when my phone rang again, the vibration rattling against the nightstand. I reached for it, intending to silence yet another unknown number, but this time the name flashing on the screen made my blood run cold.

Mr. FitzGerald.

I swallowed hard and answered. “Hello?”

“Sophia Bennett,” his voice drawled, deep and commanding. “I trust you are well this morning?”

I stammered. “Yes, sir.”

“I assume you have seen the photographs. They are everywhere. Unfortunately, rather than avoiding the issue, we must get ahead of it.” His tone was sharp, decisive, as though he had already made all the necessary calculations.

“Yes, I saw them,” I whispered.

“Good. Then listen carefully. We need to divert attention away from the company, and I have heard of your talents. In fact, I have seen them. You will now take the lead as our PR representative for this scandal. You will spearhead the publicity campaign, starting with Michael’s press conference in six days.”

My heart nearly stopped. “Me?”

“Yes. You. You will make an official statement clarifying that the relationship between you and my son is strictly professional. That will be your first assignment. Understood?”

I sat frozen, my mind racing. “Understood, sir.”

“Good. I expect nothing less.”

The line went dead, and I was left staring at my phone in silence, Natalie’s curious gaze fixed on me.

“What was that?” she asked.

I let out a shaky breath. “That… was Mr. FitzGerald. And apparently, I just became the face of damage control.”