***
After slipping on gray sweatpants and a white shirt, I exit Billionaire Mansion and stalk the fifty feet to the production area, which was originally probably intended as a large pool house. It’s easy to find Candace and the security team inside: I just have to follow the flurry of hysterical voices. “I don’t know,” Candace is repeatedly saying. “I don’t know. We’re going to have to call—”
I see them all standing in her office together. Several files paper her desk.
“Oh,” I say, almost laughing, “I thought you meant a real security breach.”
Candace glowers. “Hard copies are just as sensitive as our online records.” She grimaces then, glancing down at them. “Maybe even more so. Some of our files only exist in hard copy.”
I frown, uncertain about what she’s trying to tell me.
“So, what is all this stuff?”
Candace looks at one of the security men, then back at me. “Employee records,” she confesses. “Addresses, emergency contacts, bank accounts. And…uh…” Her voice trembles a little, and she clears her throat, righting it. “And Roxy’s ex-husband, Jared, has been calling the studio and threatening to do something like this.”
At first, I wonder if he has seen her file. The question goes through me without a sound, more like an instinct to fight than an actual thought, and all the blood rushes up into my head. I feel a little dizzy at the thought of Roxanne in danger. Where has she been these three weeks? The vertigo passes and clarity settles over me. I have to go to her now. She’ll stay here, close to me, and Candace will see the reason in it, because Candace does love Roxanne, deep down, doesn’t she?
I pluck her file up from the desk and scan for its address, but Candace snatches it from my hands before my eyes can find the line.
“No,” she snaps. “You’re not leaving here, and she’s not coming here.”
“You owe her that much,” I sneer. “It was your security staff that failed to protect her confidential information. Jared threatened to do this, and you didn’t think to increase security? Didn’t you take it seriously?”
“Me?!” Candace bellows at me. The security flanking her sides shrinks back. “You were the one who pulled her onto national television with you! After I told you that she had an abusive ex, a man she was running from. You knew that.”
I seethe, but no words come to mind. I can’t defend my decision. It was stupid. It was reckless and cocky, like the old me.
“Now we have to deal with this,” Candace continues as I simmer at her. “Put the set on lock-down. Air another stupid retrospective in its place. Extend our deadline another week or so. Jesus Christ, we’re so over budget.”
My brow furrows at the words. “How long am I going to be trapped, phoneless, fucking choking on cameramen and boom mics, in an LA McMansion?” I demand to know. “You sold me on the idea of an eight-week deadline! I’ve been here almost three weeks, and we’ve only covered one episode! It’s been seven bloody weeks!”
“Eight to twelve weeks,” she reminds me coyly. “A possibility of sixteen. Those were the details in the contract. Check the fine print. We pay you a bonus for it, Blake.”
“Pay me,” I scoff. I don’t give a shit about the money. “This is bullshit, Candace. What does filming have to do with Roxanne’s safety? Just bring her here!”
“This isn’t all about Roxanne,” she explains. “We have no idea which files were compromised.”
“We’ll need to completely reconfigure certain points of entry and passcodes,” one of the security men offer in Candace’s defense. I glower at him.
“And we’re going to contact all the employees, naturally, and confirm that they protect their identities,” another offers.
“Isn’t there an alarm going off in that giant camera lens you people call a mansion?” I demand of the security men, forming their little shield of stoic masculinity behind Candace. “Isn’t there anything else you need to be doing right now?”
Candace smirks, knowing I’m infuriated because I’m beat, and nods to the men, allowing them to address the alarm in the mansion. Even now, in this situation, she can’t help but be thrilled to be right.
After her security team has cleared from the office, and it’s just the two of us, she continues, “Look, Blake, it’s a process. You’re worried about Roxy. I’m worried about Roxy. We’re all worried about Roxy.”
“Just not enough to do anything.” I tuck my arms around my chest and exhale powerfully. “She’s just a makeup artist to you.”
Candace’s eyes lock to mine, and she slowly saunters around her desk, until we’re standing close enough to kiss. I’ve never noticed the blueness of her eyes until now.
“When I first met Roxanne, she was at the Second Chances women’s shelter, after running almost three hundred miles from Jared Epstein.” Candace’s voice is unusually gentle as she recalls meeting Roxanne. “She came to LA because she had one old friend—a girl named Pepper—who actually believed her story, and that was it. Her whole support network was a woman named Pepper. Everyone else was brainwashed by her husband. He was charming and strong at first, just like you. Almost intoxicating.”
I want to interject that I’m nothing like that man, because I know Candace believes me to be threatening, another alpha ready to peck Roxanne into place, but I don’t. I don’t say anything, because I know this story isn’t supposed to be about me. I let her finish.
“But it was because this high-power narcissist always needed everything—even his woman—to be perfect. He convinced her family and friends that she was mentally imbalanced whenever she displeased him. Painted her to be a total nymphomaniac and pathological liar. Even her parents, back in Ohio, still believe to this day that Jared Epstein is a loving husband, the victim of Roxy’s abandonment. Roxy’s. They believe Jared over their own daughter. And the Roxanne you know didn’t even exist yet. The Roxanne I first met was terrified of the world around her. She treated every man like a potential rapist. She cried constantly. Panic attacks. And I was there. I was there for that, before she was strong and stable Roxy.”
I nod, seeing Candace in a new light.
“I wasn’t hosting any shows back then. Roxy hadn’t even been certified to work in cosmetology. I took her into my home—my own personal home—for a year!” Her blue eyes go flat and ruthless again, and the Candace I’ve always seen first comes back out. “So, don’t tell me I don’t fucking care. I do. You don’t know me. You don’t even really know Roxanne. You just got here, Prince Charming.”
A begrudging respect for Candace dawns inside me, and I nod. “All right,” I give her. “All right, Candace. Of course you care.”
“But,” she continues, “Roxy isn’t the only thing I need to worry about. My job is at stake. I have a production team to answer to here. I can’t justify letting her live in this mansion, on set. Not in the middle of this gossip storm you two created. And it’s not just your girlfriend; it’s everything. We might totally shut down. I don’t know. The integrity of the entire show has been compromised.”
“Integrity of the show,” I repeat. “You think there is a chance that this isn’t Jared, specifically hunting for Roxanne’s home address?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Candace says, scooping the files into her hands and slowly reorganizing them. I know she’s not focusing on that. She just wants me to get out of here, because I’m asking damn fine questions. “The producers actually don’t care about Roxanne. I’ll warn her. But that’s all I can do.”
“Where the hell is she?” I demand. “That’s all I need to know. The only makeup girl I’ve seen is the other one. Cindy.”
“Mandy,” Candace corrects me. She rolls her eyes, but then she mutters, “She’s had some time off coming her way for a while, and she took it.” She hesitates and leans closer. Before she speaks, she winces. “All right, asshole. She’s in an apartment in Hollywood called The Lofts at Sunset. Unit number two.” Candace swallows and nods at me, then looks away. “But you didn’t hear it from me. And if anyone catches you out, I don’t know anything about it. I’ll let you dangle in court.”
“The Lofts at Sunset, unit number two,” I echo softly, placing a hand on Candace’s shoulder and giving it a pat. “Never heard of it.”
I head to the door and slip out, then pause and glance back at Candace, now reorganizing her files in earnest, probably thankful to be rid of me. “And Candace?” I call to her.
“What?” she grunts, refusing to look.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she grumbles.