Page 72 of The Problem with Princes
“But,” I sputter out. “But I was a witness. Someone tried to kill the crown prince of Atraxia.” I swallow hard and lick my lips. “I was required to stay until the man was identified.” He’s firing me because I stayed in Atraxia? This can’t be happening. This isn’t right.
He scowls at me. “Yes, I saw your forced confinement. It made the front page of the society section.” He stabs his finger at the picture—the one I’m beginning to hate—in the paper on his desk.
“But that picture was taken before I was told I had to stay.”
“We are past excuses, Miss Martindale. My decision has been made. I can’t trust you to tell me the truth. And therefore, I can’t allow you to work here any longer. Please, clean out your desk and leave.” He swats the newspaper to the side, as if it’s his life it has just ruined.
“But, sir—” I can’t move. I just sit there, staring at him. He can’t be serious.
“Must I call security, Miss Martindale?” His sharpness brings me out of my stupor.
I stand and shake my head. Then turn and walk toward the door.
“Deloris will give you your last check on your way out, once she has checked to make sure you have not taken anything that belongs to the company.”Mr. Wainwright calls out behind me.
I only nod, as tears prick at my eyes. He thinks I’m a liar and a thief. Well, isn’t that just fan-freaking-tastic.
I walk to my desk with my gaze trained intently on the floor. I can’t look at anyone, knowing they likely know what has happened. Mechanically I open my drawer and pull out my purse, shoving the few pictures and tchotchkes I keep on my desk inside it.
I give my desk one last once-over, only then noticing Deloris standing beside my cubicle.
Seeing that white envelope pinched between her fingers, it suddenly hits me. I’ve been fired from my job. Not laid off. FIRED. Oh, my gosh. I have never been fired in my life. My lips shake and the first tear blurs my vision. I bite down hard on my lip and angrily swipe at the tear.I will not cry here. Not until I’m in my apartment, by myself.
Squaring my shoulders, I snatch my paycheck from Deloris’s hand and walk out of my cubicle, completely aware of all the eyes that follow me on my professional walk of shame. Apparently, I’m not the only person who knows how my day is going today. I lift my chin, unwilling to let everyone know how humiliated I am.
I push out of the glass doors and moisture seeps from the corner of my eyes.No. Not yet, I beg. If I can just make it onto the Metro. No one will know me there. But my body is still as disobedient as it was in Atraxia. As soon as the lobby doors close behind me, the flood gates open and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Let the ugly crying commence.
The world becomes a blurry haze of blacks, grays and greens. My legs wobble on my stupid three-inch heels and I just narrowly miss stepping on a dog. Or it could have been a large rat. It’s hard to say.
A man stops and asks if I’m okay. “Do I look okay,”I slobber out. He wisely backs away. After he’s gone, I feel a bit of remorse, but not enough to go after him. Like he’d stop for me again. You know, the whole once bitten twice shy adage.
Somehow, I make it home. I’m not really sure how, but I don’t really care. I open the door and throw my purse and the contents of my desk on the couch, heading straight for my bed. I don’t even bother to remove my heels or jacket.
I bury my face in my pillow and open the reserve tank of tears. When that well runs dry, I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the side table. I open up the internet search engine and type in my name and Ty’s. I roll onto my back before I hit search. Do I really want to know just how many pictures there are and what is being said?
I’m feeling fairly self-destructive, so I push on the little magnifying glass and watch as it brings up website after website. I think that maybe another well of tears is about to open, but they all seem to be lodged in my throat.
I read through each post. The things they say about me are relatively minor. Mostly where I live and where I’m from originally. I have to say, I’m pretty unimpressed with the media’s research skills.
But the things they say about Ty are terrible. They make his relationship with me out to be just another salacious fling in a very long line. The man they describe I hardly recognize as the man I spent nearly a week with. I can see it of MA, but not Ty. But the more I read, the more doubts creep in. Was it just a fling?
I drop my phone onto my mattress beside me. My eyes feel as though someone has scrubbed them with sandpaper.
I close them, just for a minute…
* * *
A knock soundsat my door. “Gee? Are you in there?”
I try to crack my eye open, but my mascara has stuck several of my eyelashes together. I look like a lady in this old Disney movie my mom loves, calledNorth Avenue Irregulars. Through the narrow slit I can see there are only dark shadows in my room.
“Yeah.”
My door slowly opens, creaking quietly on its hinges.
“Oh, man. You look like Hades.” Texie whispers but probably not as low as she thinks.
“Thanks.” I roll to my other side.
