“Hugh, what’s going on? It feels like you know something I don’t. What have you been told and by whom?”
I want to make an accusation, but I might come off like I have an ax to grind, only adding fuel to the fire started by the Carmichaels.
Maybe he’ll tell me. Hugh could be the first person to give me something I can work with.
“I’m not getting involved. This is an unfortunate situation, and I’ve always had the utmost respect for you. I valued your opinion and had hoped one day you might partner with me, but…” He lets out a snort of frustration as if his back is against a wall. “I have to go. The best of luck to you.”
Eyes damp, I blink and release a shaky breath as he ends the call. Whitney Carmichael strikes again. I didn’t plan on talking to her husband anytime soon, but she’s giving me no choice, unless I go directly to her.
She’s vilifying me and I want answers. I was half kidding when I said I was blacklisted in the city. Now I’m sure of it.
Whitney’s ruining my reputation, and I have to put a stop to her.
4
Pru
Sexiest man alive
Despite the clash with my mother—which usually leaves me restless and moody— and the upsetting call with Hugh Wilby, I sleep well and am out the door with time to spare for my first day of work.
I exit the elevator into the lobby of the building and nearly run into Whitney Carmichael. Well, if it isn’t the devil herself.
As usual, she’s the quintessential Upper East Side socialite—immaculately put together in her Miu Miu dress with the Peter Pan collar, makeup applied to perfection, and hair swept back into a low bun.
While we’re the same average height of five six, she puckers her lips and glares down at me in her three-inch Saint Laurent sandals.
“Good. I’m saved the trouble of having to fetch you.” She adjusts the Hermes’ Birkin Bag on her arm.
“Whitney. We need to talk.” I want nothing more than to haul her upstairs and have this out, but I’ve got work. “I’m on my way out and don’t have the time right now. But when are you available?”
I can be mature and civil about this. I will put aside the damage she’s wreaking and figure out how we can both go on with our lives.
“I have no desire to talk to you about anything.”
“You came to my building.” I’m sure I look stunned at her stupid comment and then it hits me. How did she know I was here?
While Manhattan is a big city in population if not in land, our social circle is small. We both come from money, and it wouldn’t take much for her to know I moved from the loft and ended up here.
It irks me that she’s so well informed. What is her problem with me?
“Stay away from my husband.” She leans into me, getting in my face and also raising her voice.
An elderly couple, the Hermans, stop on their way to the door, and I want to clamp my hand over her big mouth. My smile is unnatural as I force a cheery hello to the couple and grab Whitney by the elbow.
I drag her into a corner, away from the main walkway and hopefully closer to more privacy.
“I haven’t seen or spoken to Ross since…since…”—I grapple with a word that isn’t as pathetic and painful as the truth, but there’s no way to soften the blow—“he fired me.”
There’s a flash of surprise or something unexpected in her eyes, and she lifts her chin higher. “I’ve never liked you.”
“Well, I never had a problem with you until now. And as of right now, the feeling is mutual.” Bitterness curls my upper lip, and I lower my voice, failing to maintain my composure. So much for the higher ground. “I was the one fired and yet you’re the one going around telling lies about me.”
“Don’t think you can destroy my life and play the victim.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not playing at anything. You set out to take everything from me, and you got it.” I stare past Whitney at a few more residents, all of whom are itching to come closer. “I won’t have this conversation with you here, but if you don’t stop—”
“What? You’re going to ruin my reputation? You’ve already done that.”
“Whitney, I’ve done nothing of the sort.” My phone buzzes with the alarm I set to ensure I left on time for work. “I have to go.”
Without giving her the chance to make a further scene, I dash out the door. While I’d planned on taking a cab, at this time of the morning and my lead time all but gone, the train is quicker to get downtown.
To my amazement, I arrive at the studio fifteen minutes ahead of my call time, and a security guard calls someone to come get me. Not long after, a short, busty brunette marches my way. She can’t be any taller than five feet three, wearing a headset, a black T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes with a clipboard in hand.
“Hi, I’m Lydia.” She offers an automatic smile and shakes my hand. “Like I said in my text, I’m a PA and assigned to you for the duration of your time on set. Here’s your schedule for this week. My contact details are at the top.”
She thrusts a piece of paper at me, giving me no time to look it over before she walks away. Not bothering to see if I’m behind her, she disappears through a doorway, and I sprint after her.
“Look this over and confirm your contact and payment details are correct.” She shoves another sheet of paper at me. “Craft services is set up over here.”
Lydia points to a room where a few people mill around tables with coffee, fruit, pastries, and other assortments of breakfast food.
“Restrooms.” Another quick point to a set of closed doors. “Bryce is on set right now, but he’ll come see you when he can.”
She opens another door into a small nondescript room with a loveseat, desk, and two chairs. “This is yours. You won’t spend a lot of time here, but it’s a place for you to put your stuff.”
“Okay.” I glance around, relieved to learn I won’t be cooped up in this windowless closet.
“Let me introduce you to Tristan, and by then, Eli should be finished with his scene.” In a flash, she’s out the door once more. “They both prefer their own space, so you’ll most probably work in their trailers. But let them decide.”
“Lydia. Wait.” I jog to keep up, seriously reconsidering my outfit.
A pencil skirt and high heels were a bad choice, especially if I’m to keep up with my PA.
“What?” Confusion colors her face.
“I need you to back up a bit.” My stomach rolls, queasy as if at sea, and for a moment, I regret agreeing to this. I’m out of my depth. “I’m not really sure what the job entails. I was told I’m teaching Spanish and Russian.”
She nods, crinkling her brow in what looks like irritation. “You’ve read the script, right?”
This position happened so fast. Following Ross’s virtual introduction to his brother, Bryce Carmichael, the script was couriered to me a few hours after I replied with my address and résumé.
There was no formal interview. A few email exchanges with Lydia and I was hired. Clearly, Bryce was desperate for a foreign language coach, and I was foolish enough to take the position without understanding what it entailed.