Chapter 125

The moment lingers between Hugo and me, with his hand warm under my touch. This starts as a comfort but quickly shifts into something I did not expect.

This moment is almost… romantic.

Hugo looks into my eyes, I look into his. Slowly, he starts to lean closer.

An image of Miles flashes through my mind.

Even with us being separated, sharing any kind of intimacy with Hugo just feels wrong, when Miles is the one I want to be with.

At once, I remove my hand and bring it into my own lap. Hugo straightens. His expression hardens slightly, though it never becomes unkind.

“For your statement,” Hugo says, smoothly moving on from where we were and back into the business at hand. I’m so grateful that I’d thank him except I don’t want to bring any attention onto what just happened between us.

It was an accident. A mistake.

Hugo and I are just friends. Though he is a good friend, and he’s handsome and strong-willed. If would want to date again, he would make for an excellent candidate.

What am I even thinking? My heart is in such a tangle; I shouldn’t be thinking like this.

“What specifically would you like your statement to say?” Hugo asks.

“Mainly, just repeat what Miles said,” I reply. “We’re friends and that’s it. That kind of thing.”

Hugo hums in acknowledgement. “Do you want to acknowledge the photo at all? People are suspicious that the man in the photo is Miles. They will expect any statement to reference that.”

“What can I say? I can’t tell people who that man is.”

Hugo considers. “If we confirm that the man is not Miles, that should be enough. They’ll want to know who it is instead, but we’ll say the man values his privacy and doesn’t want to be caught up in this matter.”

“Okay.”

Hugo stands and returns to his desk. Immediately he starts typing at his computer. He types quickly, his fingers flying over the keyboard. With his intense focus on the screen, he truly seems to be in his element. It’s amazing to watch.

In record time, he comes up with copy that is short but efficient. It’s a simple denial, but the language keeps it from being a total lie. It says I am not in a sexual relationship with Miles, though purposefully omits using past language. The statement ends with a request for privacy.

“I’ll keep workshopping the language. I’m not totally satisfied,” Hugo says. “But I’ll have something for you to look at by the end of the day. Then we can release it tonight.”

“The sooner the better,” I tell him, ready to be done with this entire thing.

My heart still aches from Miles’s denial, but being proactive with my own is helping. I have to keep busy so that the sadness doesn’t overwhelm me.

“Thank you, Hugo,” I say as I stand. “I mean it.”

“You are one of my employees, but you are also my friend, Esther,” Hugo replies. “It’s my privilege and obligation to use my abilities to protect you.”

“Still. Thank you.”

Leaving his office, I return to my cubicle and try to focus on my work. Kimberly, likely recognizing my distress, keeps me busy with tasks not related to Miles.

The rest of the office continues to buzz with some speculation over who my secret lover could be, but eventually, it pitters out. If he’s not Miles, he’s not newsworthy, and that’s what the reporters in this office really care about. By mid-afternoon, no one’s really talking about it anymore.

At the end of the day, Hugo gives me the updated copy. It’s tighter than before, with more concise language. I give my consent, and Hugo personally takes it to the newsroom so they can publically release the statement on air.

Even as my co-workers leave, I stay in my office chair, not wanting to face the rest of the world until the matter is resolved.

Hugo is gone for about an hour. When he returns, he comes to my cubicle. “It’s done.”

“Thank you,” I say. I might have to keep saying that forever. I don’t know where I’d be today without Hugo.

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“I do.”

Hugo goes quiet a moment, watching me as I gather my things. “The police brought you here, didn’t they?” he asks.

“They did,” I reply. I don’t know how he knows that, but I suppose the CEO of a news network likely knows everything.

He tilts his head. “How are you getting home?”

I still. The policeman didn’t give me a card or anything. I have no number to call. I could call non-emergency, I suppose, but what if they are needed for actual problems? I don’t want to treat them like a taxi-service.

“Maybe the news vans have realize I’m not newsworthy anymore and left,” I say.

“Some of them have,” Hugo says. “But there are many still there, waiting for you to go home.”

Again, Hugo proves that he really has his finger pressed onto every pulse. Does anything happen in this city without his knowledge?

“I can’t not go home,” I say. “I’ll just call a car.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Hugo, I can’t ask you to –”

“You aren’t asking, I’m insisting. We’ll bring two security guards with us. They’ll see you to your door.”

Two security guards? At first I think that might be excessive, but then I remember how pushy the reporters were earlier, when even the policemen acted as my bodyguards.

“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.”

Hugo gives me a disapproving look, but I don’t take back my verbal gratitude. He deserves to hear it a hundred times.

“Give me a minute to rally security. Then we’ll go,” he says.

I nod and wait.

Hugo drives me home in an SUV with dark-tinted windows. The two security guards sit in the back. They are friendly enough, introducing themselves when we first met and promising to get me into my house safely. The smiles and brightness have vanished in the car though. Now, they are all business.

“They should have received word of the statement by now,” Hugo says. “But they won’t want to leave empty handed. They are going to try to ask you who that man is. Don’t say a word. If you feel you have to, just say, ‘No comment.’ Don’t let them bully you.”

“I’ll try,” I reply, but I’m already so nervous I feel like I might be sick. I just want to go home and spend time with my girls. Forget this day ever happened, and wait for the whole thing to blow over.

Hugo pulls the SUV onto my street. He was right; there aren’t as many vans, reporters, and photographers as before. However, the ones that are here seem extra aggressive, eagerly perking up at the sight of our SUV.

Hugo tries to pull into the driveway, but the wall of people block his path. Even honking the horn doesn’t seem to deter them.

“I can walk from here,” I say, already reaching for the handle. I don’t want to make things any more difficult for Hugo. He’s already done so much for me.

“Wait,” he says, but it’s too late.

I opened the passenger and step out. The security guards scramble to follow me.

The minute my foot touches asphalt, the reporters swarm all around me, shouting out questions and shoving microphones into my face.

“Esther! Is it true that man isn’t Miles or are you just trying to save face?”

“If it’s not Representative Hamilton, then who?”

“Who is your lover, Esther? Who?”

The security guards take point, one in front of me, and one behind. Yet while they can physically push back the reporters, they can’t stop the onslaught of questions.

“Were you enjoying yourself in that moment, Esther? Or was it coerced?”

“Are you afraid to tell us who the man is because he’s married?”

The questions grow worse and worse.

I try to steel myself. No comment is poised on my tongue.

But then someone asks, “Was Miles Hamilton just using you for sex? Did he manipulate your feelings for him?”

Of all the accusations, this one is the worst. How dare they infer that Miles coerced me somehow?

Without thinking, desperate to protect Miles, I spit out, “Miles doesn’t mean anything at all to me.”