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Chapter Eight

Vanessa

Don’t ask my girl stupid fucking questions.

My eyes open. It’s dark in my room, but I can’t sleep. Haven’t been able to sleep since the press conference last week and the media frenzy that followed, even though I’m absolutely exhausted. I understand now why Mr. Singkham said that there were teams of a hundred plus just working on the comms, PR, and marketing for some of his Champions.

Of course we’d prepped, but we couldn’t have prepared for him. For that .

You don’t talk to her, you talk to me.

In a single afternoon, the Wyvern had played a role and built a persona for himself that we had hoped to build over the next several months.

She’s shy. I see any of you hounding her on the streets, I’ll melt the cameras to your hands and light your underwear on fire.

He’d made threats even more violent and imaginative over the next seven minutes and sixteen seconds that he’d taken question after question.

So you don’t think it’s nepotistic for Ms. Theriot’s company to win a PR contract for the COE despite the nature of your relationship?

The bid was blind, and she won it before we met, without me having seen it or her. After I asked her on a date the first time, Mr. Singkham made us sign a whole bunch of shit to be sure whatever happens with us doesn’t affect the company. Nessa’s a good fucking girl and smarter than the lot of you combined. She got here on her brains, not on her back, and if any of you ever suggest anything like that again ever, I’ll tear out your spines. Nessa. He called me Nessa.

And is the nature of your relationship sexual?

Not that it’s any of y’all’s fucking business, but no, it ain’t. Not yet. Not yet. I shudder where I lie in bed, replaying those words over and over. I know it’s part of the brand, the package, but he sounded so damn serious. He can’t be serious. And yet, the warmth that spreads across my thighs and between them is. You ask another personal question like that, I’ll light that microphone you’re holding on fire and shove it up your ass.

The more violent his declarations got, the more rabid the reporters became. When he finally did what he’d promised and turned all the raised microphones into mini torches, the reporters present all laughed, right after they’d screamed.

I’d been really worried, but Margerie hadn’t been when we’d gotten offstage. She’d been scrolling my accounts and assured me that the press conference had swayed public opinion on the Wyvern already but warned me not to check the accounts personally, reminding me what I usually reminded all my clients—that people could be mean.

And like my typical client, I didn’t listen. I wanted to see.

The comments were insane. People—mostly women, but people across the gender spectrum too—had gone absolutely feral every time he’d threatened a reporter for me. The top comment on the seven-second clip Margerie posted from that day read, “ Any good ducking girls in the building? ” It already had twenty-four thousand likes.

Nobody was talking about the wine incident anymore. All anyone was talking about was me. Analyzing how we looked together. How I looked at him. How he looked at me.

She’s shy.

“ Awwwww. ” That was the top comment on the clip Margerie posted to his official page. He already had 180,000 followers. I had half that many. And yeah. Margerie was right to tell me not to go through the comments. Because while most of them were loving the Wyvern’s love story with the shy, awkward Blerd, a lot of people were also loving trashing me. It didn’t matter that the Wyvern had shown up unshaven in sweatpants with dirty hair or that I’d spent two hours getting ready that morning. I was still too short, too tall, too skinny, too fat, too uptight, too, too, too ... ugly ... for him.

And after the conference, I wanted to talk to him, but all I’d managed to do was get a weakly uttered thanks out. He’d responded by glaring at me and then leaving.

You’re just an ugly little shit, Vanessa. I can hear her voice in my head, a constant reminder of a life I don’t seem to be able to leave behind.

I remember being a kid when the Forty-Eight fell and discovering that they’d all lost memories of their childhoods. How jealous I’d been.

I move my phone to the nightstand and close my eyes. I do my breathing exercises even though I’ve been doing them on repeat already and my chest is starting to hurt. I know I can’t control what people say about me. I know it’s stupid to try. But maybe I could afford to lose a few pounds. I grab my stomach fat under my belly button and squeeze. I could go for a run tomorrow morning.

You take too much after your deadbeat daddy. No man’s ever going to find you pretty.

I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, set a new alarm and close my eyes purposefully.

I can still see the notifications blipping with cruel taunts and jeers, so I squeeze my body into a tiny ball and force my thoughts in another direction. It’s easy once I give myself permission.

You stupid little—

—Nessa. A warm syrup paints up and down my spine. Nessa’s a good fucking girl.

He stood up for me. I know logically that I can’t trust him. Actions speak louder than words, and so far his actions and words have been a nail bomb where each nail is either outright angry or almost nice.

He caught me when I fell in the boardroom, then told me to get lost. He took me to my parents’ house when I couldn’t stand, then beat up my brothers. He fired me, then bound me to a contract that will keep us close for years. He told me he’d move in with me but didn’t.

I don’t understand, and yet ...

You don’t talk to her, you talk to me.

I exhale into my pillow, close my eyes, and dream.