Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Nine

Sasha

The gala is beautiful. A sea of elegantly dressed people, laughing and chatting in the marble lobby of the city art museum. Waiters in tuxedos weave between the guests, champagne trays held aloft, and string music drifts through the perfumed night air.

It’s perfect. The kind of event I always dreamed of attending.

And my stomach is snarled in knots.

“Stay close.” Grant leans down to murmur in my ear, his lips brushing my cheek. I sway toward him, unbidden. “Don’t want some famous actor stealing you away.”

I snort, but it comes out strangled. “Hardly.”

It’s laughable—the idea that the gorgeous billionaire would get jealous over me. I mean, my dress is creased from the car, and I’m starstruck by half the people here. If the guests notice me, it’ll probably be because they think I’m on the wait staff.

But Grant peers at me, so intent, so serious, and I know he means it. I brush my knuckles against his hip, there-and-gone.

“I won’t wander. Girl scout’s honor.”

As if I could. Tomorrow, my last week with Grant is up, Simon’s deadline looming over me like a guillotine. I begged him to let me come back, to end this undercover charade, I know that, but now that the day’s almost here, my heart is raw and bleeding.

Grant will hate me. There aren’t many things I’m sure of, but I do know that.

He’ll never forgive me.

But at least there won’t be any more secrets between us. I’ve been sick with guilt for weeks now. I can’t stand lying to him for another day.

“You stay close too.”

I don’t know what makes me say it—it’s hardly something an assistant can demand of her boss. But the thought of wasting a single second of my last evening with Grant makes my chest tight.

“Don’t worry.” He’s amused, leading me through the crowd with a wry smile. “I’ll protect you, Sasha Jones.”

Curious eyes follow us as we plunge deeper into the gala. The crowd is thicker in here, interrupted only by pale stone sculptures, perched on bronze plinths. Huge oil paintings line the walls, and a glass chandelier sparkles overhead.

“It’s beautiful here.”

Grant nods, hand reaching back for my wrist.

“Do you like art? I can’t believe I don’t know that about you.”

My laugh is shaky. He’s my boss, not the other way around. Why on earth would he know that?

“Yeah, of course I like art. You know. A normal amount.”

His laugh booms towards the ceiling, drawing more pairs of eyes.

“A normal amount,” he mutters.

Someone floats a tray of champagne in my direction, and I snag a flute. I’m probably supposed to be professional here, stone cold sober, but what’s the point? I probably shouldn’t have sucked Grant’s cock in the car either.

The memory flushes me hot, from head to toe. I fan my cheeks, trailing after the billionaire’s broad shoulders and sipping from the sweet, bubbly champagne.

I’m glad it happened.

I only hope he still feels the same.

“This is Viola Mackenzie—curator of the gallery.”

“Bill Yardley—chief of police.”

“This is Felix Hutchins. An investor of mine.”

Grant introduces me to every person he talks to, and each time they peer down at me, bemused to make conversation with an assistant. I smile and force my mouth to say all the right things, but all I can think of is the stack of folders on the back seat of the car.

He studied for this—to remember people’s names. To hide his secret from the press.

From me.

As the evening wears on, the knot in my stomach winds tighter and tighter, and I sip more thirstily at my champagne until my head spins. Grant does all the talking, thank god, and lets me hover nearby, ears ringing, glass squeezed in my hand.

So I spot him first.

Simon.

My boss—my real boss—weaves through the crowd nearby. Shaking hands and leaning in to murmur in people’s ears. I’ve never seen him in action before, as editor of The Courier at a major event, but right now, I can see how he charms out these people’s secrets.

He’s at ease—powerful and slick. At home with these elites; ready to play their elaborate games.

And with his blazer and his wild mane of dark hair, a recorder held loosely at his side, Simon couldn’t look more like a reporter if he tried.

“I need—um. Let’s get some air.” I tug on Grant’s elbow, interrupting him mid-sentence. He frowns down at me, concern pinching his forehead, as the stately woman he was just talking to stares down her nose.

“Sasha? Are you alright?”

“Yep. Yes.” I pull on his sleeve. “But let’s go. Right now.” My pulse thunders in my ears. He can’t see Simon. Not now. Not yet.

Not when I’ve got a few more hours left with Grant.

Not when I haven’t confessed.

“Has something happened?” Grant stays rooted to the spot, damn him, peering around us. “Did someone say something to you? Something rude?”

And god, even now, he’s trying to protect me. I don’t deserve this man. And it hurts.

“Please, Grant.” I swallow hard and hold his gaze. “I’m begging you. Let’s go.”

“Alright.” He holds up his palms in surrender. His gray eyes are so, so worried. “But you will tell me what’s wrong outside.”

“I promise.”

And I mean it. I’ve always known I’d have to tell him. To look him in the eye and confess my lies.

It will break me. Cleave me in two. But I will be the one to tell him. It’s only right.

“Come on, then.” He plucks the empty flute from my hand, placing it on a passing tray. We’re going. We’re nearly safe.

But then Grant’s turning, his hand taking mine, just as the crowd parts in front of us. And Simon is there, dark eyebrows twitching up as he takes in our tangled fingers; my flushed cheeks; Grant’s deepening scowl.

The marble floor drops out beneath me as Grant stills, another stone statue in the middle of the crowd. People flow around us, chatting and laughing, oblivious.

And for the longest moment, I kid myself it’s all okay. That he’s stopped because of something else—because those folders with their photographs let me pretend.

Those folders.

But then Grant drops my hand, and I know. I can’t pretend anymore. Cold settles into my bones.

“Ironic, really.” Grant barely turns his head to speak, his low voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. Like he can’t even bear to look at me. And his voice is bleak, shaking with bottled up rage. “The one time I remember a face. I wonder why?”

He strides off without another word, and that’s worse somehow. I wanted him to yell at me. To rant and rave and humiliate me; to hurt me the same way I hurt him.

Instead, I’m left alone and stranded in a sea of cocktail dresses and dark suits. Gasping for breath, the chandelier blurry overhead. Simon pauses, mouth twisting, then steps closer. Nudges through well-dressed shoulders to reach me.

“Sasha.”

For once, the editor is lost for words. He frowns at the nearest oil painting, turning the recorder absentmindedly in his palm. Then, with a breath, he pins me with that stern gaze.

“I think you’d better go home.”

* * *

Grant won’t answer his phone. Of course he won’t. I hurry down the museum steps, my phone pressed to my ear, and scan the sidewalk with blurry eyes. Guests spill out of the gala, wrapped in formal coats and silk scarves, and more casually dressed pedestrians weave between them, rolling their eyes.

Next to the curb, a sleek black car idles.

He left me his car. Even now, he makes sure I get home safe.

Oh god. What have I done?

“Come on, come on.” I rap on the driver’s window, waving before I slide into the back seat. “Pick up. Please pick up.”

I hold the phone away from my face just long enough to direct the driver back to the office to pick up my things. And when I press it back to my ear, Grant’s voicemail message playing over again, I let out a tiny sob.

He won’t speak to me.

I’ll never get a chance to explain.

What could I say, anyway? Grant Keller has always hated the press, and I’m one of the few who knows it’s for a good reason. Because he trusted me, confided in me, and my knuckles turn white where I grip the car door.

It takes forever to reach the office. Even late in the evening, the roads are packed, the rain-soaked vehicles bumper to bumper. So I have plenty of time to replay what happened in my head, hearing his furious words bouncing around in my head.

The leather creaks beneath my thighs. I can’t believe we were here together only a few hours ago, his hands in my hair and his taste on my tongue.

I stop trying to call after the twentieth time it goes to voicemail. His voice is clipped in my ear, telling me to leave a message, and steeling myself… I do.

“Grant. It’s me.” I clear my throat, voice thick. I will not cry to his voicemail. I will not sink that low. “Um. It’s Sasha.”

I pause, an invisible clock ticking in my head. I was so desperate to talk to him, to explain everything, but now that I’m trying to do it, I’m coming up blank. I’m just sad and tired and sick with regret.

“I’m sorry.” Those words are so small. So insignificant. And my words are hoarse as I keep whispering to the empty car. “So sorry. I’m—I’m a junior reporter. I was assigned to work for you undercover. We were—we thought there was something bad going on at your company. Something big.”

My eyelids drift closed as a headache throbs behind my right eye. I pinch the bridge of my nose, just like Grant always does.

“I never planned…” Oh god, the things he must think. I swallow, throat tight. “It was real. With us. I need you to know that. I wasn’t trapping you. I meant it all.”

The car slows, pedestrians passing the tinted windows, and I slink down in the leather seats. It’s so cold in here in nothing but my dress, my coat forgotten in the cloak room at the gala. So dark and quiet.

“Look. I…” I don’t know what else to say. There are a thousand things to tell him, and nothing at all. “I was going to resign tomorrow. I was going to tell you everything. I know you won’t believe me—”

I break off. This is pointless. He’ll be insulted to even hear these things. I’ve told him I’m sorry; told him I truly cared. Anything more is a waste of breath.

“I wish we’d met any other way.”

I duck my head, tears streaming.

“Goodbye.”