Chapter 119

“I… uh…” I begin, somewhat flabbergasted.

Paige, who in part, has seemed to witness this exchange, hurries to my defense.

“Mrs. George! I would be happy to refill your champagne for you.” Paige reaches for the glass, but Mrs. George pulls it back from her grasp. “Your glass, ma’am. Please.”

“I want Mrs. Graham to fill it,” Mrs. George says.

So she does remember who I am. Or at least who I was, pre-divorce.

“You might not have heard,” I say, outwardly presenting patience that I do not feel inside. “I no longer work here. I’m a reporter now. I’m covering this event for Harbinger News Company.” I lift my badge to show her.

She doesn’t even glance at it. “I know who you are, Mrs. Graham.”

“I’m also divorced,” I say. “It’s Ms. Owens now.”

Mrs. George narrows her eyes at me. She doesn’t like being interrupted. “I know who you are and why you are here. This is the exact reason why I want you to refill my drink.”

“I don’t understand…” I say. Glancing at Paige, she seems just as confused as I do.

Mrs. George continues, “I’ve seen the picture. You know the one I mean. I know the secrets you don’t want exposed.” She tilts her empty champagne flute back and forth. “My drink now, Ms. Owens.”

Paige looks to me for answers, but I’m too busy trying to pull my stomach off the floor and back into my body to give her more than a passing glance.

Also, I don’t really want to explain it.

Yeah, I know the photo she means, the one of Miles and I caught in a compromising embrace. The one Hugo went to the Whisperers to have them block from public eye. The one that no one else should know exists.

For Mrs. George to have knowledge, she’s either friends with Amber, which seems unlikely, or she’s in the Whisperers. For all the wealth Mr. and Mrs. George hoard, it doesn’t surprise me that they are in the most powerful secret club in the city.

It does, however, unnerve me. Especially now, when I see her using this knowledge as a power trip over me.

Every nerve in my body wants to stand against this wealthy woman trying to knock me down, but for Miles’s sake, if not for my own, I have to accommodate her. If the Whisperers change their minds and release that photo, it could ruin everything.

I accept the glass from Mrs. George and try to ignore the smug expression she gives me.

Without another word I scurry to the drink tent. Paige stays in my shadow. When we are out of range of Mrs. George and other guests, she moves to my side.

“What was that all about?” Paige asks. “Are you in some kind of trouble? If it’s money you need…”

“It’s not,” I’m quick to assure her. She’s a kind woman. I’m sure she’s already calculating how much she could afford to lend me. “It’s not a money thing. But she does have something over me. An important something.”

“Esther…” Paige gives me a worried look.

I wish I could comfort her by telling her there’s nothing to worry about, but that’s not true. My most damning secret is in the hands of people who hoard money and power. On a whim, they could ruin Miles and me. I have to keep them happy.

“It’s not ideal,” I admit to Paige. “But I’m okay. If I do what they want, they should back off.”

“For how long?” Paige says. “I’ve been around these types much longer than you, Esther. One drink refill will not be the end of this.”

I know she’s right, but there’s nothing I can do about it. So I request a refill of champagne from the bar, and return the now filled glass to Mrs. George.

By now, she has moved to stand with her husband. When I approach, he sees me and his eyes light up with a vindictive kind of excitement.

After passing Mrs. George her champagne, Mr. George hands me his empty tumbler. “Whisky, Esther.”

Other members of the media are nearby. They lift their brows at Mr. George’s mistreatment of me, but don’t say a word.

I take his glass and head back to the bartender. The bartender pours the whiskey which I bring back to Mr. George. He’s in the process of telling a joke. He stops midway when I approach.

“Esther. Go into the clubhouse and set my tee time for next week. I play on Thursdays. The earliest they have open.”

Again, the other reporters all look at me.

What can I say? How can I argue?

Swallowing my pride, I nod and turn away.

Walking into the clubhouse, I approach the desk of the assistant who does most of the tee time scheduling. When I convey Mr. George’s request, she gives me a strange look.

“Mr. George is already set for 7am Thursday,” she says. “He’s had that same spot every week for years. I’m afraid he sent you in here for nothing.”

Not nothing, I realize. He wants to humiliate me. And by keeping me away from the party, he is making it impossible for me to report on it, sabotaging my employment.

I can’t go running to Hugo and Kimberly about this. I have to find some way to resolve this situation on my own.”

First, I need to calm down, though, because my frustration and anger are starting to skyrocket.

Before returning back outside, I instead alter my course and slip into the ladies’ room. I go right to the sink, turn on the cold water and start splashing it on my face. I didn’t put too much makeup on today, so I’m not worried about smudging it. I just need to calm down.

A few more splashes, then I turn off the water and, after grabbing some paper towels, start dabbing my face dry.

What a nightmare this event has turned into? How could it possibly get any worse?

Then Mr. George walks into the ladies’ room. There’s no one else in here, I realize as both relief and horror fill me. He wants to talk to me alone.

“Mr. George, this is the ladies’ bathroom,” I remind him, attempting to be friendly even as every single muscle and nerve in my body goes on high alert.

Mr. George stands between me and the only exit. I don’t have an easy escape. Clenching my teeth, I brace myself for anything.

“I go wherever I please,” he says.

I inch a step backwards.

“The assistant said you already have a tee time at 7am sharp on Thursday,” I say.

“I don’t care about that,” he replies. His eyes graze down the front of my body. Repulsion pulsing through me, I inch back another step. He takes two steps toward me, closing the distance.

“I’m a powerful man, Esther. I hope that you know that. You certainly should. With this power come certain expectations…” He grins. “I always get what I want.”

“I don’t even work here,” I tell him, purposefully obtuse. We both know he’s not talking about champagne, whiskey, or tee times anymore.

“I’ve seen your picture, Esther. With you in the throes of passion,” Mr. George says. His eyes go dark. “I would now like to witness that sight in person.”