Page 16 of Faking the Pass

The Email

R osie

After calling Danielle and assuring her I was okay, I sat on the bed scrolling through my feeds on one site after another.

Almost always a mistake. Reading the posts on my socials hurt.

Some people actually tagged me in them, as if I’d want to see their mean comments.

One of them suggested I’d slept with Randy to get the role in Once Upon a Charm and then dumped him as soon as I “got what I wanted” from the affair, stranding him at the altar and breaking his heart.

Other posts weren’t mean, more like concerned—about my safety, my mental health, wondering where I was and if I was okay or if I was maybe suicidal or something.

It was nice to see not everyone was rushing to judgment. At least some people out there realized I was a human being and not some soulless doll with no feelings at all.

Most of the posts made me seem ridiculous though, and maybe I was. I was a grown woman hiding from her life after all.

Obviously, I couldn’t keep doing that.

Reading all this wild speculation about what might have happened made that clear to me. I was going to have to address it soon, if not for my own sake then for Presley’s.

He was just as much a prisoner here as I was, and it wasn’t fair. The sooner I got out of his life, the better.

As far as I could tell, Randy still hadn’t put out a public statement, but he’d sent me about a thousand texts, demanding to talk. I didn’t even want to read them, but I knew I probably should.

Presley knocked on the bedroom door. “You okay in there?”

I crossed the room and opened it, pasting on a smile for him. “I’m fine. Glad to have my own clothes again.”

He looked me over, apparently appreciating my outfit—a sleeveless top over a trim skirt and sandals. His eyes moved over my body before returning to my face.

“You look nice.”

My voice sounded a bit breathless when I responded. “Thanks.”

For some reason, his perusal had made me nervous. I attempted a breezy tone as I passed him in the hallway and headed for the open living room/kitchen area.

“Gray was nice.”

Presley followed me. “Yeah. He’s a good guy—and he gets the whole media scrutiny thing. He and Scarlett dealt with quite a bit of it themselves.”

“Speaking of,” he said. “Any word from Randy?”

He nodded toward the phone in my hand, and I looked down at it again, tapping to open yet another of Randy’s text messages.

“ Lots of words—most of them pretty angry.”

“Do you have to respond?” Pres asked.

I sighed. “I haven’t yet, but I think so.

Despite what happened at the wedding, we’re still co-starring in a movie together.

There’s still publicity to do for that, and if I don’t do the press junkets with him, I’ll be in breach of the contract I signed and lose my entire salary for the film. Which as you know I’ve already spent.”

The thought of sitting beside Randy and making happy talk on camera made me nauseous. And the questions were bound to be beyond awkward.

As I read through more of Randy’s texts, that appeared to be what he really cared about.

They were all demands that I work with him to salvage the movie release, that I be “reasonable” and respond so we could work out a plan to move forward.

“He wants me to do a press conference with him,” I told Presley.

“Tell him to go fuck himself.”

His blunt response actually made me laugh.

“As much as I’d love to do that—or just ignore him and the whole thing—I’m not sure that’s an option.”

“Wait, you’re not actually thinking of doing it are you?” Presley asked.

I looked at him and shrugged.

“Why would you even consider doing anything that prick wants you to do?” he demanded.

“Because he’s the one with all the power,” I said. “He says he’ll ruin my career if I don’t. And he’ll do it, too, believe me. This guy makes Harvey Weinstein look like a sweetie. I can’t believe I ever thought he had my best interests at heart—or that he loved me.”

Presley scowled. “What does he expect you to tell everyone? That you were kidnapped by aliens? That you suddenly developed amnesia and forgot you were supposed to get married?”

“He wants me to back up the story he told the wedding guests, that I left because I was sick, and that we’re still a couple. He’s going to email a script.”

Presley snorted and shook his head in disgust. “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have to cover for his douchebaggery.”

“No one said life was fair. Hey, did Gray happen to bring anything chocolate?” I asked.

“You and your cupcake addiction,” Presley teased. “I haven’t finished putting stuff away, but I doubt it.”

Wandering into the kitchen, I peeked inside the grocery bags. Not a speck of chocolate in sight. Damn. Maybe there was more wine somewhere.

I was certainly tempted to drown my sorrows in some sort of carbolicious substance, and I’d need a lot of them to get through what was coming.

As I saw it, I had two choices—give up on my dream of having a film career, something I’d been working toward and sacrificing for for twenty years.

Or swallow my pride, ignore my morals, and go along with the lie Randy had cooked up to save his reputation and our movie.

“What is that?” Presley growled.

The sound was so vicious it actually made me jump.

Stalking toward my position at the kitchen island, he touched the underside of my right elbow and lifted my arm toward the light.

Confused, I glanced down to see what he was glaring at.

There on my bicep was a bruise, vaguely hand-shaped, very ugly.

Randy must have left it there when he’d grabbed me on our wedding day, trying to prevent me from leaving the venue.

“It’s nothing. I can’t even feel it,” I said, embarrassed for some reason.

Presley ignored my attempt to brush it off and moved to my other side, gently raising that arm so he could get a better look at it.

My skin bore matching dark streaks on that side as well.

Intense hazel eyes came up to meet mine, brimming with… something. I wasn’t sure what, but it was dark as hell.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded. “Randy? Did he abuse you physically as well as emotionally and financially?”

“Abuse me… wh- what are you talking about? No. He never hit me.”

“But he did put his hands on you.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Well, yes, I guess. On our wedding day. I was trying to leave the mansion, and he was trying to stop me. He was angry.”

“That little shit.”

Presley brought a hand up to cover his mouth and dragged it down his chin, gripping his jaw before letting it go and spinning on his heel to pace over to a window.

After a few seconds, he turned to face me again. His expression was pure animus.

“You’re not doing the press conference. You’re not getting anywhere near that guy.”

As he said it, his hand slashed the air like he was slicing it open.

He was clearly upset, but I wasn’t sure why. I mean, yes in general we were all against men manhandling women, but this had nothing to do with Presley.

And the fact he apparently thought he had some say in the matter shocked me.

Why would he even care?

He was just a guy I’d known in high school who took me out for a few weeks before breaking up with me without an explanation. We literally hadn’t spoken since then until he’d found me asleep in his bed last night.

“I don’t want to do it,” I said. “The last thing I want to do is get up there and lie and let him off the hook. But I think I have to.”

Looking down at my phone again, I checked my email for the script Randy was supposed to send. Nothing yet.

“Maybe if I don’t respond, he’ll simmer down and get over it,” I said. “Maybe Gina will go into labor and he’ll have bigger fish to fry. Maybe if I ignore him and stay in hiding, he’ll get bored of the whole thing and go away and let me live the rest of my life in peace and anonymity.”

But my luck wasn’t that good.

The email from Randy arrived a few minutes later, signaled by a ding from my phone.

It was worse than I’d expected.

He started by saying he’d already scheduled the press conference—for tomorrow—at Bellevue Manor, our wedding venue.

Randy said he was going to be there whether I decided to show or not and that I would not like what he said to the media if he had to sit there in front of the cameras and microphones alone.

It was a threat, and I had no doubt he’d follow through on it.

“The email from Randy?” Presley asked, looking up from the wine bottle he was opening and watching me alertly. He must have heard the notification bell as well.

I nodded, continuing to read.

Presley poured a glass of wine and brought it to me in the living room where I’d retreated to my favorite comfy chair.

“Thanks.” I took a sip when I wanted to chug the whole bottle down with a funnel.

“He scheduled a press conference for tomorrow afternoon at two,” I said. “He says he’s just sent out the announcement to the media.”

“Bastard,” Presley muttered.

He fell onto the couch opposite my chair and leaned toward me with his good elbow on one of his spread knees.

“What does he want you to say?”

“Hold on, it’s in an attachment.”

I opened the file, which as promised, contained the script Randy had written for me. A note at the top instructed me to follow it to the letter or my career was over.

Presley waited as I read it, my heart beating faster and my stomach sinking lower with each paragraph.

The horror must have shown on my face, because he sounded impatient. “What? What does it say?”

“I’m supposed to back up his story about getting sick on our wedding day, say that I was feverish and delirious and that’s why I chose such an unusual vehicle for my escape.”

“Is that it?” Presley asked.

His observant eyes took in my expression, the hard swallow required to suppress the baseball-sized lump that had formed in my throat.

I shook my head. Though I was trying to stay calm, emotion seeped into my voice. I couldn’t control it.

“I’m supposed to say that I’ve recovered now and that I… I… still desperately want to marry him.”

I looked up and met Presley’s eyes. “And that the wedding will be happening. Here. This week.”

“What?” he roared.

Holding the phone out to him, I let him read the rest. I didn’t think I could say it out loud.

Presley’s face looked like a Nor’easter, storm clouds filling his eyes and fierce lines bracketing his mouth as he read my groom’s full manifesto.

It said that although the glamorous Hollywood crowd wouldn’t be present this time, a full film and sound crew would be on hand to capture every detail.

That the video would be shared freely with the press and posted for public viewing on Youtube and all the social media sites as well as the website of Randy’s production company.

That he expected me to look eager, ready, and willing to be his bride, to cry on cue, and to act like I was madly in love with him.

Worst of all, it said that following the “wedding,” I would be required to live with Randy for a year to make it all look real.

Presumably with his mistress and their child.

Neither of whom I was allowed to mention—ever.

If I agreed to all of it, Randy said he would pay off the rest of my debt, and more importantly, not blackball me in the industry.

If I didn’t, he vowed to bury me.

When he finished reading, Presley looked up at me, clearly stunned.

“You’re not going to do it,” he said as if it was obvious.

“What choice do I have?”

I was powerless. I didn’t have a choice.

But I honestly didn’t know how I’d manage to live with Randy and his real family, a constant reminder of what I wanted for myself, for a whole year and retain my sanity.

Not to mention the humiliation aspect—which would be overwhelming.

And then it all fell apart. All my self-control, all my strength, gone.

The stress of the last couple of days combined with Randy’s threats was simply too much. I covered my face as the tears started falling too fast to stop.

To my utter shame, sobs broke free of my throat’s tight constriction.

Within seconds, I felt Presley’s hand on my back. Then it slid beneath my arm, urging me to stand.

He guided me to the couch and sat beside me, wrapping his good arm around my shoulders and urging my head to his chest. He was saying soothing things, and the rumble of his voice under my cheek was pleasurable and comforting.

As I cried, I burrowed even closer. I couldn’t help it.

The warmth of his chest and strength of his arm around me were unspeakably good, and I was too upset to even care how pathetic I must have seemed to him, clinging to a virtual stranger like that.

Tightening his hold on me, Presley spoke into my hair, his hot breath sinking to my scalp and raising goosebumps all over my body.

“Fuck him. Fuck the NDA. I think you should go in there tomorrow and tell everyone the truth.”

I shook my head, no doubt soaking his shirt with my tears even more than I already had.

“I can’t. I can’t afford the fine,” I said. “I can’t even afford a lawyer. And if Randy makes it so I can’t work, I won’t be able to afford to live.”

Sobs overtook any further attempts to speak, so I stopped trying. I wasn’t sure how long we sat there like that, me blubbering and him stroking my hair and back, whispering words of reassurance that sounded nice but didn’t really fix anything.

Don’t get me wrong—I appreciated him more than I could express. He’d given me a place to stay and now this?

He’d really gone above and beyond for a girl he hadn’t seen since high school (and didn’t even really like all that much back then.)

But Presley couldn’t fix this. No one could.

Which was why I was going to show up at that press conference tomorrow and why I was going to follow Randy’s odious script, and why—no matter how much it might kill me—I would put on that draconian wedding dress and walk down the aisle in front of all those cameras.

And act my broken heart out, convincing the world that my world didn’t feel like it was ending.