CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE –
Megan’s POV
A persistent mewling noise slowly coaxed me out of slumber. Blinking blearily, I registered Smoky batting at my face with an insistent paw.
“Good morning to you too, little miss,” I mumbled, voice still husky with sleep.
Smoky simply meowed louder, traipsing across the pillow to nudge against my cheek demandingly. A glance at the bedside clock showed 10:04am in blazing red numbers.
Pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets, I attempted to shake off the lingering mental fog. Damn, I really had slept in after that late night call with Lilly disturbing my-
The bedroom door flew open with a jarring bang, causing Smoky to leap away with an indignant hiss.
“Good God, you’re still entombed?” Jane’s nasal voice preceded her sweeping into the room in a billow of floral perfume. She looked equal parts scandalized and vindicated at finding me rumpled amid the twisted sheets.
Frowning, I squinted against the harsh stream of hallway light cascading in behind her imperious silhouette and planted my feet onto the plush carpet.
“Is there an emergency?” I muttered, scooping up my robe to cover the spaghetti strap camisole. “Or did you just feel like barging in as usual?”
“An emergency?” Jane sniffed disdainfully. “I’d say the current state of damage control qualifies as one, wouldn’t you?”
I felt a tendril of unease tickle my spine at her derisive tone. Bending to scoop up the cranky feline, I straightened to face whatever storm seemed to be brewing.
“What exactly are you implying?” I kept my voice carefully level.
Jane’s sculpted brow hiked upwards as she crossed her arms defensively. “Don’t play dense with me, Megan. Your reputation is officially becoming a hot topic across the scandal rags thanks to yesterday’s little dalliance with Mystery Writer Boy.”
A frustrated noise escaped me as comprehension set in, grimacing as I stroked Smoky’s back distractedly. Of course, the paparazzi vultures would have picked up on my innocuous bookstore encounter and extrapolated something lurid.
“It wasn’t a dalliance, Jane,” I countered, working to keep my temper in check. “We bumped into each other while doing separate errands and chatted briefly. That’s all.”
Her derisive scoff made me bristle. “You were both photographed in some fairly intimate looking conversation and body language,” Jane stated flatly. “Then you left alone like lovesick fools staring after the other’s retreating form.”
I opened my mouth to rebut her absurd characterization, only to feel her icy stare cut me off.
“Save your explanations. The media already decided your new boy toy’s identity seems to be your ghostwriter helping pen this supposedly explosive memoir.”
She arched a condescending brow. “And judging from their recreation of yesterday’s cozy afternoon ‘literary salon,’ the public’s chomping at the bit to discover all the sordid details about your torrid on-set affair with this ruggedly handsome stud pollinating your creative process.”
It was an effort not to gape openly. “I-”
My faltering response seemed to delight Jane further, sparking a knowing gleam in her frosty blue eyes.
“You’re in over your head on this one, Megan,” she tutted with an infuriating tinge of pity coloring her tone. “Whatever lurid ‘muse cultivation’ has been brewing during your closed-door writing sessions… it’s now blown wide open into a salacious media frenzy.”
My mouth worked soundlessly as Jane pressed her perceived advantage, drawing up to her full imposing height.
“I tried advising more discretion from the start, but you insisted on staying bullheadedly stubborn in defying conventions as always.”
She announced this with a decided triumphant undercurrent, simply waiting for my feeble protests to undermine themselves. When it became clear I had none to offer, Jane let loose a beleaguered sigh.
“Well, I suppose the cat’s officially among the pigeons now. But no need to thank me for being there to professionally minimize this cataclysmic PR disaster for you…”
I shot her a bewildered look, throat finally finding words. “I’m sorry, what pigeons? What damage control?”
Jane leveled me with a pitying expression one might bestow upon a slow child. “Honestly Megan, do try to keep up.”
She reached into her crisp linen blazer and withdrew a glossy 8×10 photograph, presenting it with all the pious gravitas of a prosecuting attorney tendering key evidence.
Sure enough, the glamour shot depicted me in the bookstore, body angled and gaze trailing after Chris’s receding form with unguarded longing practically sizzling off the glossy surface.
“Between these indiscreet public courtship displays, your little Instagram hint about illicit backstage hookups, and the all-but-confirmed rumblings of another kiss-and-tell all memoir… the tabloid deviants have even cooked up a plausible civilian name and background for your new ghostwriter stud-muffin to obsess over.”
I worried my lower lip between my teeth, gut curdling as I processed the cascade of incendiary extrapolations she was citing so matter-of-factly.
“But I never confirmed any salacious hookups or-”
“You haven’t denied them either,” Jane steamrolled ahead, the steely flash in those pale eyes brooking no quarter.
“Which gives the gossips free reign to keep fanning the flames over your torrid off-camera love affair speculation. Add that to the white-hot heat clearly simmering with this delectable literary talent in question…” She allowed herself a significant pause here, delicately swiping her tongue across her upper lip.
“Well, it seems abundantly clear even the blindest fool could hazard what happens next in this steamy saga, doesn’t it?” Jane declared with an air of faux innocence that chilled my veins as her implication sank in like a lead weight.
All pretenses of civility finally shattered in my rising outrage over the blatant slut-shaming insults she was couching her dissent within.
“You listen to me, Jane,” I began in a low, dangerous tone, lips thinning to a razor’s edge. “I don’t give a damn what pearl-clutching celibates think they understand about my motivations and character.”
Smoky squirmed uneasily in my arms, flicking a distressed tail as I continued in heated undertones. “Chris is my literary collaborator and friend, nothing more. What we share is a mutual admiration and passion for the written craft, period.”
Jane’s mouth curved in a skeptical moue of distaste. “Oh, I’m sure you’d like us all to take that at face value…”
Heedless of her condescension, I pressed forward with escalating vehemence.
“Our relationship is one of profound creative intrigue and artistic synergies aligning towards something transcendent, no matter what lurid extrapolations you and those degenerates peddling innuendo might speculate!”
Her derisive snort sliced across the thickening atmosphere like a whip crack. “Oh, wake up and smell the cheap coverup, princess.”
Jane jabbed an immaculately manicured fingertip towards my chest with emphasis. “This is all headed into one place whether you choose to acknowledge your little cub’s clear intimidation tactics or not – a damning torrent of speculation over who exactly bent you over that writing desk first night of shooting…”
The blunt vulgarity of her insinuation lanced through me like a serrated blade.
“And mark my words – the moment your little literary sidepiece gets ousted soon enough, our crisis PR team will need to take drastic measures containing the inevitable sideshow before the attention demolishes your reputation completely!”
My ears were ringing as the full ugliness underlying her jaded viewpoints slammed home. This went far beyond protecting any client’s image – this reeked of something more deep-seated. More… personal.
Still, the cold lambency in Jane’s eyes betrayed a concerted ruthlessness and ambition hardening her very marrow.
And as my peripherals finally registered the sleek feline ball of fur cowering in my arms in primal response, I realized the very objects of her calculated machinations had just been laid out before me with brutal succinctness.
I swallowed hard, steeling my resolve.
“Well then,” I murmured, almost to myself. “I suppose there’s no time to waste in formulating whatever public-facing strategy that steely mind of yours has already envisioned.”
Jane studied me shrewdly a final moment. Then the professional mask snapped fully into place, brisk and uncompromising.
“Indeed,” she clipped out crisply. “Which is why I’ve already taken the first prudent step…”
The sharp crack of her compact case snapping open echoed across the plush carpet, followed by the rustling of glossy prints being proffered forth with her signature flinty resolve.
“To preserve what remains of your tarnished public image and legacy, you’ll need to date this scrumptious young Casanova in a high-profile, committed courtship immediately.”
My treacherous lungs refused to draw oxygen as the enormity of her decree hammered home.
“No… Jane, you can’t be serious…” My choked whisper barely registered over the dull roaring in my ears.
Smoky suddenly leaped from my embrace with a distressed yowl, streaking out the bedroom door in a blur of silver panic.
But Jane’s expression brooked no argument – only ruthless acceptance as her calculated bombshell detonated across everything in its path.
“We’ll be announcing your blossoming courtship by week’s end,” she stated in clipped tones of finality. “With immaculate staging, of course, to enhance the fairytale allure and romance trajectory these rabid gossip mutts cannot resist devouring.”
With those words, she proffered the 8×10 prints with a note of grim triumph – the stark portrait of my supposed new suitor and designated romantic paramour captured in studious mid-profile, each razor-carved line and arresting contour rendered in gratuitous high definition.
“Meet Christian Gray, the roguishly talented yet straitlaced literary darling who’s somehow seduced your affections off the page… whether he’s agreed to play the role or not.”