Dirty Diana by January James

Chapter Fifteen

“Magda, darling, how are you?” I trilled, raising my voice above the din of the New York City traffic. I’d just had yet another successful meeting with a media group, this time about sponsoring a segment on the primetime show of their highest-reaching station, dedicated purely to unsigned acts. Our repositioning had taken off like a rocket. Our social channels had grown exponentially, thanks to all the new sparkling bands and artists we were now showcasing, and we’d managed to crash YouTube with our first ever UnSigned mini concert.

“Mr. Peyton-Harris would like to see you this afternoon. When are you due back in the office?”

I stopped walking and ducked into a doorway.

“I wasn’t intending to come back today. I’m meeting with…”

“Mr. Peyton-Harris insists.”

“Fine,” I sighed, refusing to hide my dislike of the man who was trying to ruin my life. “What’s the nature of the meeting?”

“He wants to discuss your recent marketing activities.”

I smiled to myself. “Which ones? There have been rather a few.”

Not only had we successfully established our position as the champions of new and alternative music, we had also launched #savephoenix, through a revealing interview that Ayda had graciously given to MusicWeek. It was still early days but the hashtag was already trending on every social media channel.

I’d personally met with each of our acts—Cherry included who, to her credit, was genuinely upset and expressed a desire to help in any way she could—to explain our new strategy and the hashtag campaign. They all jumped at the chance to pitch in and help, and not just because their futures were on the line, but because they truly cared about good music and really wanted to save the label that had put so much faith in them.

“Your Save Phoenix campaign. I believe…” I felt her lean closer to the phone, “… he feels you’ve overstepped the mark with Ayda’s interview and disagrees with your interpretation of the statement we put out.”

I loved Magda. As the CEO’s executive assistant, she was putting her job on the line by giving me more information than she needed to. But she was an ally, and she’d made it clear she hated Jude as much as everyone else did. It wasn’t just because he was looking at each of us through a magnifying glass for any flaws or signs of weakness, but he had the emotions of a wooden plank. I didn’t recognize him. Gone was the man I’d had mind-blowing sex with, who’d sat me on his knee to eat nachos, who’d tickled me until I couldn’t breathe. Gone. Poof. Like smoke.

“Magda, I love you. Thank you for the heads up.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, then lowered her voice further. “I love it, by the way. It’s genius.”

I laughed and hung up, then turned on my heel. If Sir Jude needed me back at base, then back to base I would go.

* * *

“You wanted to see me.”I stood in his doorway, watching his eyes narrowing on his screen and trying to slow the beating of my heart. He looked up, a flash of something crossing his face before he adopted his usual blank, deadpan expression. I had only seen him once since that fateful meeting where we’d basically threatened to annihilate each other, and that had been at another director’s meeting, through which I had attempted to ignore both his frequent glances and the throbbing between my legs.

I hadn’t exactly dressed for this occasion—my mind had been focused wholly on saving my label, and less on the cut of my dress. But, admittedly, the navy lace shift I’d thrown on that morning did make my breasts appear fairly sizeable, complementing my rounded hips. I allowed myself a hint of smugness as he—unintentionally, I suspected—raked his eyes over me before he spoke.

“Take a seat, please.”

My heels clicked as I walked across the polished floor and sat in the chair opposite him. I placed my notebook on my lap and held my pen, poised to take down whatever instructions he was about to give me.

He turned fully to face me and rested his forearms on the desk. I noticed he hadn’t made any attempt to personalize his office. There were no framed photographs, no business awards, not even a comedy mug or mouse mat. Only his Empirical-issued computer and a plain Mont Blanc pen. He leaned forward, burrowing his eyes beneath the surface of my skin. Not for the first time since I’d met him, I shivered at the proximity and inhaled the sweetness of his scent. I had no doubt that, even while their lives were hanging in the balance too, a whole swathe of young employees would have been drooling over our sadistic CEO. He was beautiful. Movie star beautiful. He really was a young, more modern James Dean. I tried to imagine the drape over his face again, but it simply served to turn me on. I cleared my throat and attempted to think of something else. The campaign. Always the campaign.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asked, a fake smile crawling across his lips.

“Excuse me? I’m sitting in your office,” I replied.

“With your little marketing campaign?” He clarified. Not that I needed the clarification; I knew exactly what he was referring to.

“If you thought it was ‘little’, I doubt you’d have called me in here to talk to me about it,” I replied, giving him my own fake smile in return.

He ground his teeth then slowly sat back, keeping a firm grip on my gaze.

“It’s not good use of your time, Miss Delaney.”

“Oh? Then what is?”

“You should be focusing on ways to make back some of the losses you’ve incurred in the last four years… Not playing around with a silly hashtag, whining to the world because someone is finally holding you accountable.”

I was stunned by his brevity but I couldn’t show it on my face. It took all my strength to stay put and give as good as I was getting.

“Mr. Peyton-Harris,” I cooed. “Our organic reach has increased exponentially. Our press coverage has quadrupled in quantity, and sentiment towards our brand is one hundred percent positive. We are already seeing a sharp uptick in sales downloads across all our acts. I would say I have been doing exactly that: I have been making back some of those losses. I guarantee you, in less than two months we will have beaten our forecast for the entire year.”

“You’re behaving irresponsibly.”

“How so?”

“You’re creating something that kids are getting excited about…”

“And that’s irresponsible, why?”

“Because it’s all going to be taken away.”

“That’s on your head, not mine. I thought you didn’t care about getting hate mail. Thought it was par for the course, no?”

“It is irresponsible because you already know the outcome, Diana…” His voice was raised and his muscular shoulders had tensed. I knew because I could hardly take my eyes off them. “You knew all along this wouldn’t last. It isn’t fair on the fans.”

“Woah, wait a minute…” I held up a hand. “This is not a foregone conclusion, Jude. McAuley Finch haven’t completed their review and no one has undergone a consultation yet. If you had already made a decision to close down my label, it would be a pre-meditated one. And I do believe that is against the law.”

His skin darkened and I watched his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, realizing what he’d said.

“I’m saying your label is at risk of being closed down,” he corrected, between clenched teeth. “Knowing that, and continuing to court fans who are so passionate about this stuff, is irresponsible. I need you to stop.”

The wind rushed out of my lungs.

“You need me to stop? Stop my campaign?” I couldn’t believe he’d had the gall to ask. “It’s out of my hands now, I’m afraid. If the hashtag spreads, it won’t be because of me. If it spreads, it’s because it means something to people. Who am I put a stop to that?”

I glanced down at his hands. The bruising had faded but his knuckles had taken on a new hue. White.

“You’re doing this to get back at me,” he said, lowering his voice.

“Actually, you’re very much mistaken,” I replied, shaking my head. “In fact, you don’t even factor into my thinking anymore.”

I noticed him recoil slightly.

“I’m doing this because I need this job. I care about it. I care about my teams.” I almost added, ‘This is all I have’, but I caught myself just in time. Something told me that if I exposed anything that hinted at weakness, he’d be all over it like a rash.

“Welcome to business,” he said, coarsely.

“I don’t need welcoming,” I sneered back at him. “I’ve been here quite a while actually. Longer than you in fact; well, the music business anyway.”

“How do you know?” He asked, accusingly. “How are you so sure I haven’t worked in this industry before?”

“Because I’ve done my research.”

“Oh, right? And what did you find?” A small smile touched his lips and I realized he was genuinely curious to know what I’d found out about him.

“Well,” I began, “I know you left the UK before you finished Uni. You don’t even have a degree.”

“I don’t need one,” he said, arrogantly. “I have balls instead.”

I bit back a hundred responses to that claim while trying to steady my breathing.

“You tear a company apart and then you disappear. Sometimes for months. Completely vanish. You’re not around for the gushing press articles afterwards, or the awards the companies win soon after their restructures.”

“They’re not my companies. Once I’m done with something, I’m done.”

“Is that so?” I asked.

“Yes. I’ve already told you,” he folded his arms. “I tend not to feel a fucking thing. I’m not the proud father watching my board take the hand of my daughter in marriage; I’m the seedy fucking uncle who swoops in first, gets drunk and smashes everything up, then leaves to let others enjoy the party.”

“You have quite a way with words,” I said, quietly, sickened at the man he had turned out to be.

“They’re all I have,” he replied.

A breath passed between us. What were we even talking about?

“They don’t have to be,” I said, quieter still.

Our eyes had locked and the air around us had stilled.

“Yes,” he said. “They do. It’s what I deserve.”

We sat together in silence, our eyes roaming each other. Our hands couldn’t reach out to touch but our eyes could go wherever they wanted.

Then I remembered that no amount of chemical attraction would fix the situation I was in. I had one priority and one priority alone: to save my business and my job. I stood, awkwardly.

“I have to go,” I said. “And I have to do this.”

He stayed seated, watching me. He nodded slowly, allowing me to finish what I had started with something resembling dignity. Or at least that’s what he thought. But he didn’t know Diana Delaney, not the real Diana Delaney. He didn’t know exactly how high the stakes were for me.

Whatever demons he was fighting, mine were worse.

And that’s the thing about having demons—they make you do demonic things.

And he would eventually find out just how demonic I could be.