Until I'm Yours (26 page)

“Is it awkward that Kyle Manchester raped her when she was eighteen years old and she’s lived with that secret for fifteen years?” Just thinking of the story Sofie told Karen and Shaunti fans my anger, and I can’t keep it out of my voice. “It took her years before she could even be touched by a man without…never mind. Sofie doesn’t owe you an explanation, so I’m not making one for her.”

I stand to leave, stopped by Henrietta’s staying hand on my arm.

“It’s not that I don’t sympathize,” she says. “I do. I just don’t want this fling to jeopardize everything you’ve worked for.”

“Who says it’s a fling, Henri? What if it’s more? What if she’s the one?”

Henrietta closes her eyes and shakes her head.

“She’s not, Trevor. Not for a man like you.”

It sounds so much like the nonsense Sofie spouted before we left. I have to convince her that we are good together and that’s all that counts, but I don’t have to convince Henri.

“I think we all need some space.” I gently shake her hand from my arm. “You guys take the house for a few days when you get back. I’m sure you could use some time together without me around all the time.”

“Bishop, no.” Harold shifts his eyes from me to the woman he’s been in love with for years. “It’s your sister’s house. You and Hen just need—”

“Some space, like I said.” I push my hands into the pockets of my pants. “It’ll be business as usual in every other way.”

“You don’t have to do that, Trevor.” Henrietta swallows and blinks back tears. “I’m only trying to help. You know I love you like a brother, and I only want the best for you. I always want the best for you.”

I bend to kiss her head, squeezing her shoulder when she leans into me.

“I know, Hen.” I straighten and look from her to Harold. “But you don’t see what I see.”

“And what’s that?” Henrietta asks, voice still watery with her tears.

“Sofie
is
what’s best for me.”

Henrietta drops her forehead to her fist, eyes closed.

“I’ll see you guys when you get back.”

And with that, I leave the dining room, already feeling lighter because I know tomorrow I’ll be exactly where I need to be.

I
thought work would offer an escape, and it does distract me from the pandemonium some, but I can lose myself for only so long before the situation with Kyle pokes a hole in the bubble, reminding me that every time I step outside, my picture is taken and splattered everywhere like mud dragged in from a storm. Every morning I wake up to new sordid details about my past, some true and some concocted. Every day another blogger posts about me, supporting or tearing down. It doesn’t matter to me anymore really. I don’t want my name on anyone’s lips. The selective microscope I’m under magnifies every flaw, but somehow seems to overlook any good I’ve ever done.

I prop my elbows on my desk and cover my face with my hands. I knew it would be hard, but I didn’t expect to feel so alone. Like I’m standing absolutely naked in the middle of an amphitheater, hungry lions licking their chops over me, their next kill, their next meal. Ironic, since exposing my body has never bothered me. But this exposure of the soul, it’s gnashing at my peace of mind.

Three taps at my office door pull me back to the task at hand. Stil pokes her head in, a strangely eager light in her eyes.

“Hiya!” She walks into the office and places a salad in front of me. “How’s the day going?”

I shrug one shoulder, pulling the salad toward me even though my appetite has been nearly nonexistent.

“It’s fine.” I pop open the clear plastic top, wrinkling my nose at the salad. “It has olives and feta.”

“Yeah, that’s how the Greeks do it, sweetie.”

I roll my eyes, but can’t resist a grin. My first of the day.

“Smart-ass.”

“One of us has to be.” Stil leans over the desk and snatches one of the olives I have no intention of eating. “You used to love olives.”

“That was in 2008. I haven’t eaten olives in years. It’s like you don’t even
know
me.”

“Bitch,” Stil mutters, chewing her olive.

“Hussy,” I mutter back, my smile growing even wider. I needed this. Something other than Kyle Manchester and the media breathing down my neck.

“François’s office called.” Stil crosses her legs and settles back into her seat. “He wants to meet tomorrow to finalize details for Friday’s press conference to unveil Goddess.”

“Is it still at the Gansevoort?”

“Yep, François wants a final fitting for your dress when we can squeeze it in.”

“Can we do Wednesday instead? And see if he can pull a few things for me to consider from his evening collection for the Walsh Foundation’s benefit next month.”

My heart lightens at the thought of being involved in the foundation’s work again, even in that small way.

“Sure thing, Sof.”

My cell phone on the edge of the desk rings, and Stil reaches for it before I do. It’s become a habit for her with so many people calling to ask me questions, express their support or skepticism. She’s become the grand call screener. Thank God for her.

“Speak of the devil.” Stil inspects the screen. “It’s Jo Walsh.”

“Perfect. I have some ideas I need to share for the benefit.”

I reach for the phone, already smiling. After Martin and Kristeene Bennett divorced, Walsh spent his summers in Rivermont with his mother, her brother, and his cousin Jo Walsh. I, in turn, would spend half my summer there, too. I don’t know that Jo and I were what you’d call close growing up, but we tolerated each other, which was more than we did for most girls. She was always too busy trailing after Walsh and his best friend, Cam, to show much interest in the things that fascinated me—namely makeup, clothes, and boys.

“Hey, Jo.” I nod at Stil when she indicates that she’s stepping out. “I was just thinking about you. Well, about the benefit.”

“Really?” Jo doesn’t sound like herself. I can only imagine that balancing her work with the foundation while being a new mom could be taking its toll.

“Yeah. How’s Cam and the kids?”

“Amazing, really.” Jo’s voice noticeably softens when she talks about her husband and their children, a young girl they adopted from Haiti and the son Jo had a few months ago.

“Glad to hear it.” I walk over to the wall comprised mostly of windows, affording me an unobstructed view of the narrow Soho street below my office. “Oh! I wanted to tell you about an idea I had for next month’s benefit.”

“Sofie, about that…”

“So there’s this amazing floral designer who’s working with my new lifestyle website, Haven.”

“Sof.”

“I was thinking we could get her to design these one-of-a-kind centerpieces for the tables. She’s brilliant, I promise. And I could donate those. It would be great exposure for her, too, of course.”

“That’s…well, that’s very generous, Sofie, but I really need to talk about something before we go any further.”

“Sorry, Jo.” With my finger, I absently sketch an invisible heart on the windowpane, writing Trevor’s name in the center. “Shoot.”

“First, I just want to say I’m so sorry for what happened to you all those years ago, for what Kyle Manchester did to you.” Regret spills into the momentary silence Jo allows. “I wish you’d felt then like you could tell me or Aunt Kris. We would have helped you in any way we could. I hope you believe that.”

“I know, Jo.” My finger falls away from the window, and I turn to sit on the sill, back to the glass. “I just…I was all the way in New York. You were in North Carolina. We weren’t talking a lot by then. I didn’t tell anyone.”

I didn’t have anyone.

“I’m so, so sorry it happened,” Jo says. “I left you a voice mail last week. Not sure if you got it.”

“My voice mail is so full, I haven’t checked it in days. Sorry, and thank you for reaching out.”

“Of course. Cam and I are here for you however you need us. However you need
me
.”

“Thanks, Jo.” Gratitude swells my throat. “That means a lot.”

“I wanted you to know how much I personally support you before I tell you what I need to tell you. I don’t really know how to handle this except to just say it, Sofie. The board met today.”

I clutch the phone a little tighter, draping my arm across my chest to grip my elbow with my free hand.

“I see,” I say quietly, foreboding hushing my voice. “And?”

“It was an impromptu meeting, called at the last minute,” Jo rushes on to say. “They voted to suspend your responsibilities as celebrity ambassador to the Walsh Foundation.”

The words pound my heart like a hundred mallets beating away until it is bloody and tender in my chest.

“Daddy and I, of course, voted for you,” Jo says. “And Walsh would have. I know they pushed the meeting because they knew it would be hard for Walsh to adjust his schedule at such short notice. By the time he called in, they had a quorum and the vote had passed.”

“I see.” I can’t find other words.

“It’s not that they don’t believe you,” Jo says, her voice tight and anxious. “They said that all the media attention and the coverage distracts from our mission, and that the benefit would become about all of that, and not our goals and objectives for the night.”

“So they’d also prefer that I not attend next month?” It’s not a physical blow, but I feel it like a kick in the stomach.

“Sofie, you can come, if you like, of course.” Jo says. “But not in the official capacity of celebrity ambassador. None of the photo ops or interviews you’d usually do representing us.”

I want to stomp my feet and throw myself flailing to the floor and scream that it’s not fair. That I wanted to do something good, for once, by exposing Kyle, and all it’s done is complicate and destroy things.

“I understand, Jo.” I shove the hot lump of emotion back down my throat so I can get this out. “They’re right, actually. I can’t even work out at six in the morning without a press corps showing up. I believe in the foundation’s mission too much to detract from it. I mean that, Jo.”

This hurts like a motherfucker, but I mean it.

“Aunt Kris is probably turning over in her grave right now that we are making things harder for someone we should be protecting.” Jo’s voice goes watery. “I just…I’m so disappointed in them, Sofie. I’m so disappointed in myself for not finding a way to stop this.”

“No, Jo, really.” I straighten from the windowsill and walk over to my desk, collapsing into my chair. “I knew going into this it would be tough.”

“Yes, but from Manchester, from the press, not from people who are supposed to care about you. Supposed to support you.”

“Jo, let’s be honest here, though.” Cynicism bends my lips into a jaded curve. “Half that board has been wanting to get rid of me since the
Playboy
spread. You and Walsh barely held them off the last time. This was a final straw for many of them, and they took this opportunity to do something they’ve wanted to do in the past. Get rid of me.”

Her silence on the other ends confirms that I’m right.

“Sofie, there’s one more thing.” Jo clears her throat. “There will be an official statement released tomorrow about it.”

I close my eyes, one hand cupping the side of my face. It’s standard procedure. I know that, but it feels like a public betrayal. First my parents don’t support or believe me, and now the foundation I’ve given years of service to publicly distances itself from me. Kyle’s camp will have a field day with this. Everyone will interpret this as more doubt cast on my claims and character. Disappointment balloons in my chest until there’s no room for breath.

“Hey, Jo. I’m gonna go.”

“Sofie, please. I just want—”

“It’s okay.” I swipe furiously at the tears scalding my cheeks. “I, um, just have a meeting, and need to go. Do what you have to do. I understand.”

“Sofie, I hope—”

“I still want to donate the centerpieces, okay? I’ll have Stil contact your office. Give Cam and the kids my best.”

“Sof, if you could just—”

I disconnect. Not just the call, but from Jo. From the world that keeps battering me. The skin that has been thickening hardens to a crust over my heart, protecting and insulating me from any more hurt. Arrows seem to be flying from every direction, even from people and places I didn’t anticipate. It makes me feel like I can’t trust anyone. Like I can’t depend on anyone. I know it’s not true. I have Stil. I have Karen and Shaunti. My team.

But I want Trevor. I’ve known everyone else longer than him, but he’s the only one I want right now.

“Stil!” I yell, knowing my voice will carry to the outer office. “Sketches!”

Stil walks in holding a leather portfolio.

“How was Jo?” she asks. “Everything going smoothly for the benefit?”

“Um, yeah, about that.” I take the sketches from her. “Nix the gown from François. I won’t be needing it.”

“Okay. You have another designer in mind? Or already have something to wear?”

“No, I won’t, uh, I won’t be attending.” I glance up from the latest sketches for the website design. “But could we get Emily to design centerpieces for it? Connect her with Jo Walsh. I’ll foot the bill.”

“Back up.” Stil leans her hip against my desk. “You’re not going? I thought you were really looking forward to it.”

I may as well just tell her. They’re releasing the statement tomorrow, but it’s still hard for me to coax the words from my mouth.

“I’m not working with the foundation anymore.” I trail a finger over one sketch for Emily’s section of the site. “She did a good job with these. Sign off on them for me.”

Stil jerks the sketches off the desk, her eyes honed in on my face.

“Not working with the foundation?” she asks. “But you love it. Why…what?”

I run one hand over my face and tip my head back, a weary breath barely making it past my lips.

“Long story short, they don’t want all the shit surrounding me right now to distract from the mission and the objectives, so they are suspending my responsibilities. They’re releasing a statement tomorrow.”

“Jo sanctioned this?” Anger shakes Stil’s voice. “How could she do this?”

“It’s not Jo’s fault.” I almost choke on a laugh. “She fought it as hard as she could, but she was outnumbered. Walsh wasn’t there for the vote, but he barely won the last battle when I posed for
Playboy
.”

“Can’t a girl pose nude and still want to do good in the world?” Stil slams the sketches down on the desk. “What the hell is wrong with people? I mean, you come forward to say don’t vote for this douche bag who rapes women, and everyone makes you out to be the bad guy?”

“Stil, I know, but it is what it is.”

“No, it is not fucking what it is, Sof!” She starts pacing and shaking her head. Basically working herself up into a lather. “I’m so disappointed in people. So mad about how we vilify victims, especially women. How you’re the one who was hurt, and yet find yourself on the defensive. I just want to punch the world right now for how you’re being treated.”

“Hey, slugger.” I find a smile somewhere, as much for her as for me. “Stop pacing before you pull something. Sit.”

I slide the salad toward her.

“Have an olive.”

And just like that, we’re giggling. It’s not real, this temporary lightness I find with my best friend. It’s a Band-Aid barely covering a bullet hole, blood gurgling over the sides, but I’ll take it. It gets me through the rest of the afternoon of meetings, one fitting I squeeze in at my office, and a Skype call about, surprisingly, an upcoming photo shoot. For a model, I’m not modeling much lately.

“Go ahead and knock off, Sof.” Stil glances at her watch. “Whistle’s ’bout to blow.”

I tap my phone to display the time. Only five thirty. All that’s waiting for me at home is my cold, cavernous penthouse apartment and a stack of takeout menus. And my dusty vibrator, which is a sad substitute for the real thing and has been sorely neglected of late.

“I think I’ll work a little longer.” I wave my hand at the door. “You go on, though. We’ve been at it since eight.”

“I’m not leaving unless you do.” Stil sets her mouth at that mulish angle I know too well. “I’ve already called the car around.”

There’s nothing I’m doing here that I can’t do from home, but I want to hole up and hide from the world a little bit. My hesitation costs me because Stil marches over and snatches the profit projection from my limp hands, tossing it into the trash.