Page 43 of Faking the Pass
The email from Randy arrived a few minutes later, signaled by a ding from my phone.
It was worse than I’d expected.
He started by saying he’d already scheduled the press conference—for tomorrow—at Bellevue Manor, our wedding venue.
Randy said he was going to be there whether I decided to show or not and that I wouldnotlike what he said to the media if he had to sit there in front of the cameras and microphones alone.
It was a threat, and I had no doubt he’d follow through on it.
“The email from Randy?” Presley asked, looking up from the wine bottle he was opening and watching me alertly. He must have heard the notification bell as well.
I nodded, continuing to read.
Presley poured a glass of wine and brought it to me in the living room where I’d retreated to my favorite comfy chair.
“Thanks.” I took a sip when I wanted to chug the whole bottle down with a funnel.
“He scheduled a press conference for tomorrow afternoon at two,” I said. “He says he’s just sent out the announcement to the media.”
“Bastard,” Presley muttered.
He fell onto the couch opposite my chair and leaned toward me with his good elbow on one of his spread knees.
“What does he want you to say?”
“Hold on, it’s in an attachment.”
I opened the file, which as promised, contained the script Randy had written for me. A note at the top instructed me to follow it to the letter or my career was over.
Presley waited as I read it, my heart beating faster and my stomach sinking lower with each paragraph.
The horror must have shown on my face, because he sounded impatient. “What? What does it say?”
“I’m supposed to back up his story about getting sick on our wedding day, say that I was feverish and delirious and that’s why I chose such an unusual vehicle for my escape.”
“Is that it?” Presley asked.
His observant eyes took in my expression, the hard swallow required to suppress the baseball-sized lump that had formed in my throat.
I shook my head. Though I was trying to stay calm, emotion seeped into my voice. I couldn’t control it.
“I’m supposed to say that I’ve recovered now and that I… I… still desperately want to marry him.”
I looked up and met Presley’s eyes. “And that the wedding will be happening. Here. This week.”
“What?” he roared.
Holding the phone out to him, I let him read the rest. I didn’t think I could say it out loud.
Presley’s face looked like a Nor’easter, storm clouds filling his eyes and fierce lines bracketing his mouth as he read mygroom’sfull manifesto.
It said that although the glamorous Hollywood crowd wouldn’t be present this time, a full film and sound crew would be on hand to capture every detail.
That the video would be shared freely with the press and posted for public viewing on Youtube and all the social media sites as well as the website of Randy’s production company.
That he expected me to look eager, ready, and willing to be his bride, to cry on cue, and to act like I was madly in love with him.
Worst of all, it said that following the “wedding,” I would be required to live with Randy for a year to make it all look real.
