Page 26 of Chandelier Enthralled
“You have every right to be angry.”
A member of the Cole family owning Pendulum was nothing short of a public relations catastrophe. If Jewel chose to run with the story, there’d be blowback.
“Jewel has no proof.” Cameron exuded an unnerving calm, a cool confidence capable of dismantling any facade.
My jaw tightened. He didn’t require any more clues to figure out my secret—the same one Jewel had threatened to spill last night.
“What are you not telling me, Greyson?”
I swallowed hard, uncomfortable with the truth.
I stood and walked over to the hourglass, needing to turn it over, needing to turn back the past. If broken, I’d be powerless to stop the sand from pouring out and wiping away everything in its wake.
Cameron came over and flipped the hourglass upside down. Sand trickled down the neck into the bottom side. “Greyson?”
“I have to go.”
Cameron’s expression turned anxious. “What does Jewel have over you?”
I squeezed my eyes closed, resisting the agony of sharing my sin. “I’ll bring your car back.”
Cameron shook his head. “I have people for that.”
“Right.”
“Time to face it,” he said softly. “The only way is through.”
I studied which seat would be best to claim—the one for the therapist or the one for the victim. Neither looked appealing.
“It changes everything for me,” I whispered.
Cameron remained calm. “When a group of billionaires gather, they demand the best, that’s simply the way it is. And you, my friend, are exactly that—the very best. So, tell me, Greyson, what was it you designed that you now regret?”
Fuck.
“I didn’t know what that place was going to be,” I admitted, hating myself for finding out too late, having taken the commission before realizing what Pendulum represented.
Cameron’s gaze narrowed. “Atticus mentioned a third man was on the dais in the High Chamber the night Lance was killed. Greyson, was that you?”
When it came to journalism, Pulse360was the go-to place for reporters eager to tackle the toughest stories. Once inside, I absorbed the seemingly controlled chaos—ringing phones, raised voices, and the constant clattering of keyboards—underscoring the fast-paced nature of this news station.
I’d arrived early, trying to minimize the stress I felt over meeting with the head of HR. There was no hiding behind the Cole name—this was all on me.
I’d needed a code to use the elevator—666.
I found it kind of amusing.
The realization hit me like an electric shock—this hive of activity was where I belonged.
A friendly receptionist checked my pass and pointed down the side of the cubicles.
The open hallway was stacked with framed photographs capturing significant moments that featured prominent figures. Next to them were the plaques noting the names of the journalists who had broken the stories.
I was halfway down the hallway when I saw a young guy charging in my direction. I tried to dodge him, but he bashed against my shoulder, sending a shockwave of pain through me. Any harder and I’d have been on the floor.
“Hey!” I called after him.
He didn’t slow his pace before disappearing around a corner.
