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I reach for the phone, shame heating my cheeks. The last thing I want is to see his reaction to the comments.What if he agrees?
Mace tsks and holds the phone up high, well out of my reach, and tips his head back to scan my phone. The ripple of rage crossing his face is instant. “What the fuck is this?”
“Nothing important,” I lie, reaching for my phone again, but with my short legs, he may as well be a giant.
His gaze moves from the phone to me, catching the redness in my eyes with a narrowed look. “It’s not nothing.”
“Yeah, well, what can you do?” This is how the world works. Social media gets to decide when it’s your time to be crucified, and even if you did nothing wrong, no one cares. One person can fabricate the truth, and that little lie catches like wildfire and the worst of humanity comes out.
Much to my dismay, Mace scrolls through the comments, his eyes flashing with shadows. When he scrolls up to the top of the article, seeing the picture of us and reading the article, his features harden.
The air in the room thickens as he stares at the photo, a current crackling, raising the hairs on my forearms and the back of my neck. Every muscle in Mace’s body goes rigid. He holds himself so still, I don’t even know if he’s breathing. The dark blue of his eyes is lost to the widening of his pupils, a raging pit of endless black that threatens to devour everything within its reach. I take a step back.
Mace catches the movement, scowls, then, with a frustrated exhale, launches my phone across the room.
“Mace!” I shout, moving for it, but the device arcs perfectly toward the water, landing with a solidplunkandsinking to the depths of the deep end. Bubbles form and pop where the phone had cut through the water.
“What the fuck!” I whirl toward Mace, but he’s storming away, his phone pressed to his ear.
“I need to speak with Crue.”
Wait, wait. His best friend from Bluestar Entertainment? Crue Rollins, whose family practically owns the entirety of the media and entertainment in the United States, Crue Rollins? Sparing one last glance at my phone, I decide to leave it. Mace can afford to buy me a new one. I scurry after him, clutching the towel to my chest. He’s halfway to the front door when I push through the pool room.
“Mace.”
He pauses at my voice, turning slightly to watch my approach. His jaw muscles ripple and he’s holding his phone tight enough, it’s a miracle it hasn’t cracked in half. “Crue,” he growls as I stop before him. “That fucking website.”
The murmur of Crue’s voice carries from the phone, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
“I don’t give a fuck what agreements Bluestar signed. You either take it down, or I’ll do it and send a little present to the executives.”
Bluestar Entertainment is a large entertainment conglomerate, but I didn’t realize they owned NYC Socialite. I thought it was some type of independent publisher, some scorned socialite with a chip on their shoulder.
Crue says something else. I tip my head, trying to make out the words. Mace’s gaze roves over my face, and he pulls the device away from his ear, putting the call on speaker.
“—have no control over what they publish.”
Mace’s scowl deepens. “They’ll want control when I wipe out their 401(k)s.”
“That sounds like a bad decision,” Crue says with a sigh. He’s usually so upbeat, the life of the party, that this dread-filled tone has my eyebrows rising.
“Fix it, or I will,” Mace demands, lifting his hand to cup my chin and tipping my face toward his.I’ll destroy them,he mouths.
My eyebrows pinch in confusion. Why is he so mad? They still love him.
“Jesus Christ, Mace. You’re asking me to break NDAs and contracts.”
“Fine. I’ll handle it.” He hangs up and tosses his phone, not caring where it lands. The phone slams into the marble, the glass screen shattering on impact, and slides across the foyer floor.
“We need to have a serious conversation about your tendency for destroying phones,” I murmur, gaze zipping from it back to his face.
A call, probably from Crue, has the broken electronic rattling across the floor.
Ignoring it, Mace tightens his fingers on my chin. “Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I repeat like a parrot, even though the lie makes my stomach churn.
Huffing, he leans until his lips are mere inches from mine. When he searches my face, I try to bury the hurt, but I must do a shit job, because he curses, releases me, and storms up the stairs.