Page 48 of Faking the Pass
She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded. Then she dropped her hands from mine, turned and squared her shoulders, and opened the conference room door.
A roar of sound escaped, and through the opening I got a glimpse of Randy Ryland sitting at a table up front.
He looked confident and relaxed.Smug prick.
So sure of himself and his control over Rosie.
I didn’t like his cocky face.
Or his perfect hair.
Or his overly white smile.
I especially didn’t like the idea of Rosie sitting up there beside him while he shoveled a bunch of horseshit about her at the celebrity press.
They’d probably eat it up like it was chocolate pudding.
The guy was an expert gaslighter—that was how he’d convinced Rosie to marry him in the first place. I hated the idea he was getting a second crack at it.
Instead of turning and leaving, I stood outside the doors for a few seconds, then opened them and slipped inside. I found aplace to stand at the back of the room behind the photographers and videographers with their tripods and light kits.
As soon as Rosie sat down, the reporters started firing questions. They were loud and rude, and to my ears each one of them sounded like a slap to her face.
She hadn’t answered any of them yet, just sat with a look of overwhelm haunting her eyes.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears, and I’d begun to sweat, almost as if I was the one in the hotseat.
Randy used both hands to press down on the air in front of him.
“Settle down. Please. We’ll answer all of your questions. Just one at a time please.”
He pointed at a woman in a white suit, and she stood. I recognized her from a nightly entertainment show one of my exes used to like.
“How does it feel to be the girl who broke Randy Ryland’s heart,” she asked, “after he made you a star—and spent five million dollars on a fairytale wedding for you?”
Her tone was worshipful—toward Randy. She clearly had a crush on him. Or his wallet more likely.
And what a slanted fucking question. The nails on my good hand dug into my palm.
Rosie blinked a couple of times then leaned toward her microphone to answer. Before she could get out a word, Randy pulled his mic closer.
“I’ll take that one—since you did mentionmyheart, Sabrina.”
He gave the woman a dazzling grin with one hand dramatically pressed to the front of his suit, and she sat down, practically wiggling with pleasure over his blatant flirtation.
“My heart’s not broken at all,” Randy said. “In fact, it’s grateful. Grateful that my darling Rosie pulled through such a serious illness.”
He took her hand and proceeded to lay out the line of bullshit he’d ordered her to back up—that she’d been deathly ill, delirious, and had been recuperating at the home of a friend she’d grown up with here in Eastport Bay.
Beside him, Rosie sat and stared straight ahead.
Her face was blank, but I knew she was suffering inside.
Probably screaming silent obscenities at the guy. I knew I wanted to.
The questions kept coming, and Randy kept answering them. As he spoke, his grip on Rosie’s hand kept getting tighter. Her damn fingers were turning purple.
Seeing the quiet intimidation tactic reminded me of the bruises on Rosie’s arms. My jaw was getting sore from clenching it, and I was starting to develop a headache.
