Dirty Headlines

I knew Célian had paid him a visit the other day, and I knew he’d ordered him to stay away from me, beyond platonically. A part of me was furious with Célian, and another hoped what I thought he couldn’t admit to himself: that I wasn’t the only person falling around here, and he, too, didn’t have a parachute to save him from the plunge.

It’s just sex.

It’s just a distraction.

You can’t fall in love.

You’ve never fallen in love.

Phoenix bit the inside of his cheek.

“Are you high?” Ava asked. “Phoenix and Célian hate each other.”

But Phoenix looked up and told me point blank, “I think you’re his atonement. He wants to save you, but you’re the one who needs to save him.”

I did a double take, placing my roast beef sandwich on my plate.

He looked serious. “I’ve known Célian for a few years now—since before I started working at LBC. I’ve seen him and Lily together—even when they were really together.” He lifted his chin, his voice cracking. “Célian looks at you the way I looked at Camille, like he would burn the world for you. Just because he doesn’t want to recognize it doesn’t make it any less true. If the rumors surrounding him and his family are correct…” He averted his gaze to Ava and Gray, and that’s when I knew he knew about Lily and Célian’s father, probably through James Townley, who had his hand and ears everywhere in the LBC building. “Then Célian’s trust in people is nonexistent, and rightly so. He is calloused, distrustful, and hardened, but he is also screwed, and he knows it.”

“He’s never going to leave Lily, is he?” I rubbed my forehead, feeling a looming headache pushing at the back of my nose.

“He might.” “No.” “Yes.” The three of them spoke in unison.

And that’s when I chose to laugh, instead of cry.



That day I made sure I avoided Célian in the newsroom. He was business as usual, taking Elijah and a few other men to lunch and then disappearing in and out of the sixtieth floor for meetings all day. When I got back home, I threw some chicken nuggets in the oven and took a box of mac and cheese out of the cupboard. I was in no mood to fix myself something fresh. Dad, however, had been eating a lot healthier since the experimental program had begun. They sent him special meals to complement his treatment. I untied my rain jacket and threw it on the couch after I started hot water on the stovetop, kicking my shoes into the hallway.

“Dad?” I called.

I checked the living room, bathroom, and then his bedroom. He wasn’t there. Groaning in frustration, I texted him: Where R U? When will you learn to give a girl a heads up when you’re gone? I’m worried.

And selfish, I inwardly bit out. Having Dad around was convenient. I could coddle him all I liked, essentially forgetting about Célian and his looming wedding. My phone flashed with a text message immediately.

Dad: Sorry! At Mrs. Hawthorne’s. Please feel free to come upstairs. She made cherry pie.

I shook my head, laughing to myself. Could my father be falling in love at the same time I was falling apart?

Could his sick body experience something my healthy one couldn’t feel?

Have fun, and send her my love.

Dad: Will do, sweetie. Maybe she can make some more pie this weekend and we can invite Milton?

I decided that there was enough heartbreak to go around between all of us, so I kept the lie alive, though it nearly killed me.

I’d like that, Dad. A lot.



As far as I was concerned, crazy had a smell.

It was flowery body lotion and Chanel No. 5. And it diminished my appetite the minute it crawled into my nostrils through the open door of my office.

The day had been shitty to begin with. Judith was working hard on giving me the best fucking leads to land on my desk in the past year, while simultaneously avoiding me.

I wanted to marry Lily slightly less than I wanted to fuck a cactus on live television. I knew it would bring a lot of joy to my father to know I’d given up on world domination and Newsflash Corp, and that Maman would be terribly disappointed—not because she wanted grandchildren, but because she’d have loved for me to become the next Richard Branson. Regardless, I did deserve the media mogul throne. But even I had limits.

And they were currently being tested. The unbearably sweet scent was followed by a loud thump.

“Where is sheeeee?” a manic screech pierced the silence of the entire floor.

I looked up from my laptop and found my fiancée standing atop a desk in the newsroom, clad in one of her horrendously expensive wrap mini dresses and Louboutin heels. Always red. Always black. Lily didn’t have moods; she had obsessions with looking rich.

She grabbed a monitor and crashed it on the floor, sending Jessica and Elijah jumping backward with a shriek. Kate stood from her seat and galloped in Lily’s direction. I stood and made my way to the newsroom, looking for Jude. She wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Good. Lily wasn’t above starting a cat fight, but if I had to put my money on a winner, it would be Judith.

“Lily,” Kate said with calm authority, “if you want to leave this place without a security escort and handcuffs, I’d strongly suggest you remove yourself from the desk and stop breaking things.”