IN HIS DEFENSE

CHAPTER FOUR: NOBODY TELLS ME WHAT TO DO

He came down from the podium just the same way he had gone up, operating on a frequency that was entirely detached from the chaos currently consuming every other person in the room.

The press were shooting questions and his communications team looked like they were experiencing a world war.

He walked directly past me, close enough that I had to shift as his shoulders brushed intentionally against mine.

He stopped for a second and whispered into my ear.

"Nobody tells me what to do," he said, his voice was cold, completely devoid of interest in my response.

Then he was gone, and I was standing, my eyes wide open, awestruck, staring at the screen that still, faithfully, displayed the write up that I prepared for him.

I took out my phone and texted my boss.

I quit. I'm done with this project effective immediately.

I hit send and picked up my things to leave the conference hall.

My phone rang before I took even a step.

I stared at my boss's name on the screen for a few seconds before I picked up.

"Elara—"

"David. I cannot—"

"There's been a development." Something in his voice made me pause, he was using a very unusual tone.

"What kind of development," I said.

"From the higher ups." He said, like that was supposed to answer my question. But in retrospect, it was supposed to, since in the history of higher up involvement, it was never good.

I moved toward the edge of the room, away from the noise, pressing my free hand against my ear. "What does that mean?"

“I received a message this morning before the press meeting, I didn't have time to reach out to you.” He paused. “The terms of your contract have been adjusted.”

"Adjusted! What do you mean?" I asked, my eyebrows raising softly.

"If you withdraw from the Vale project," he said, and his voice had gone very flat in the way that meant he was reading directly from something, "the agency loses the contract and all associated project connected to it. And your position—" He stopped.

"My position what."

"Would be terminated with it."

I stood very still.

The noise of the press room continued around me, distantly, as though it was happening in a separate building.

“If you lose your position, that's as much as losing your career.” He continued. "It's off my hands really. I'm sorry."

The call ended.

I held the phone at my side, my heart beating rapidly like it was about to jump out of my chest.

Everything I had built, every late night and early morning I had spent working flashed before my eyes in a second.

I turned and walked out of the building, my hands trembling as I moved.

The air outside was cold. I stood on the pavement and breathed it in and thought very calmly and clearly about how much I despised Ronan Vale.

Not the media's version of him, I hated the actual man.

I started walking, with no direction in particular. Just moving, because standing still wasn't working out, my legs were shaky like i was a kid who was just standing for the first time

I walked past a coffee shop and a dry cleaner and a man handing out leaflets that I didn't take, and I was composing the outline of a very articulate internal monologue about professional entrapment when I saw him.

I saw his back first.

The specific set of his shoulders, the way he stood—slightly angled. I knew that posture. I had spent years looking at it, from much closer distance than this.

No. There's no way I'm doing this.

I turned immediately, not dramatically—I was a professional, I had spatial awareness, I executed the redirect with what I felt was impressive smoothness—and walked directly into the eyeline of a woman standing beside him who was, without exaggeration, one of the most beautiful people I had seen recently.

Not beautiful in an approachable way, beautiful in the way that made you immediately and involuntarily aware of your own hair, your own posture, every sartorial decision you had made this morning. Tall, composed, effortlessly put together in the manner of someone for whom effort had just never been required.

I turned back around.

He had already seen me.

Of course he had.

Ethan looked exactly the same as he had the last time I'd seen him, which was irritating in the low-grade way that most things about this day were irritating. He smiled, because that was what Ethan did, that was one of the fundamental and deeply inconvenient things about him, he was always genuinely pleased to see people.

"Elara." He called out.

"Ethan." I walked toward them because the alternative was fleeing and I was not going to flee. I was having a very normal day and I was completely fine. "Hi."

"I didn't know you were in this part of the city." He said, a smile tugging at his lips.

"I'm—working nearby." I said, wearing a not so bright smile myself.

"This is Camille." He turned to her, the warmth on his face making it very evident that he had already moved on from and was comfortable showing it. She was, up close, even more the kind of person who made you want to review your life choices.

"Nice to meet you," I lied. It was not nice to meet her at all.

"You too," she said, and her voice was lovely, which was honestly just unnecessary.

"How are you doing?" Ethan asked, with the sincerity that had always been his most disarming quality and remained, I noted, completely intact. "It's been a while."

"Good." I smiled. "Really good, actually. I've been busy. Great." I spouted awkwardly and at that moment I really hoped the ground would open up and swallow me.

"Are you still at the agency?" He asked, his eyebrows raising softly.

"Yes, absolutely, big client at the moment. Very exciting." I continued calmly, in an attempt to regain whatever shred of dignity I had left in his eyes. "Things are great."

He nodded. Camille stood beside him and looked effortlessly lovely.

"Are you still in Strattham?" he asked.

"I've actually—I moved." Why had I said that? I didn't know why I had said that.

"Oh nice, where to?" He continued the onslaught of questions.

My mind went, briefly and completely, blank.

"Are you living alone or—"

"No," I said. "I moved in with my boyfriend."

The word came out with a confidence it had absolutely no right to, given that it was entirely a lie. Ethan's eyebrows rose slightly, the surprise very evident in his expression. I'm pretty sure he had expected me to not have moved on by now.

"Oh," he said. "I didn't know you were seeing someone."

"Mm." I was smiling, I was smiling very steadily even though my arms were trembling and I was sincerely hoping the conversation ended soon enough before he called my bluff.

"Who is he?" He asked.

My legs, I noticed distantly, were not entirely stable. My brain, which had supplied boyfriend so readily thirty seconds ago, was now producing nothing, nothing at all. A complete absence of name, detail, or any supporting information whatsoever.

"He's—"

A hand landed on my waist, firm and possessive, pulling me sideways and my body simply—went with it.

I looked up.

Ronan Vale looked down at me and for the first time, I saw a smile on his face.

Then he looked at Ethan.

"I'm her boyfriend," he said.