Page 106 of You Rock My World
Nadine waves a dismissive hand, unbothered. “You’re rehired.”
Her offer lands flat, like a joke with no punchline—empty, meaningless.
Does she expect me to be relieved? To jump at her barked orders like a grateful puppy?
Should I?
I don’t have another job lined up. Publishing is great, but even if it works out, it won’t be a steady paycheck for a long time.
I should be relieved she’s giving me my job back. But instead of relief, all I feel is revulsion.
The idea of staying in this office, working for this woman, acting as if she didn’t tear me down thirty minutes ago or reduce me to nothing more than a story to spin, makes my stomach curdle.
Maybe Dorian was right, and my heartisn’tin PR. I’d rather wait tables than this. I did it in college, I can do it again. It’ll be enough to pay my student loans. And if I can’t make rent, I’ll move back in with my mom until I find a new job.
I glance around the open space, at the people I’ve spent years working alongside. Some of them look at me with curiosity, others with thinly veiled opportunism, as if I’m another messy celebrity scandal they get to work on.
I lift my chin. “I think not.”
Irritation flickers in Nadine’s gaze, but I couldn’t care less. I turn on my heel and leave, heading straight for my old desk.
I grab the empty cardboard box I find there—clearly set out for my departure—and start packing my things.
A few picture frames. My favorite pens. A crumpled sweater I always forget to bring home.
I lift the box and enter the waiting elevator, pushing the LL button. As the floor count begins to drop, a thought wedges itself between the chaos of the morning—this is where I met Dorian. Where everything started. And now’s the last time I’ll ever be in here. Shifting the box onto my hip, I brush my fingers against the metal wall. “Thank you,” I whisper, saying another goodbye.
The doors ding and open directly onto the parking garage, where a cooler draft greets me, sending a small shudder through my body. The parts of the world buried in snow and having a literal white Christmas this December would laugh at this SoCal girl shivering in sixty-five-degree weather. But I still drop my belongings to the floor and tug on my spare sweater just as my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Lily
Dinner at my place tonight
There’s no question mark—it’s a statement. An order?
A small, tired smile tugs at my lips. I tap the thumbs-up emoji and slide my phone back into my pocket. I’ll need to be with family tonight. My sister is going to roast me for everything I didn’t tell her, but she’s my steady place. I crave the comfort more than I want to avoid the interrogation that’s coming.
At home, I don’t know what to do with myself. I change into my comfy sweats and my leggings with a hole in the butt. Then stare around the apartment, a little lost. I have the whole day ahead of me, and nothing to fill it with.
I should be worried about money. About quitting a stable career without a back-up plan. But my mind is consumed by Dorian. By what he did. I wonder where he is now. Is he with Billie? But above all, I think about what he said. And where that leaves us.
Idon’tknow.
Should I call him? To tell him what? My feelings and fears are too complicated to dissect right now, but the media’s response to his interview won’t be difficult to analyze. So, I do what I do best and slip into PR mode. I pull out my laptop and start tracking the press coverage.
Nadine may be a harpy, but she’s good at her job. I recognize her fingerprints all over the steady stream of articles reframing the story, emphasizing Dorian’s honesty, crafting a narrative that keeps public sympathy where she—we?—want it.
And even in the outlets Nadine can’t control, the flood of support in Dorian’s favor is overwhelming. His social media are filled with love. People standing by him.Believing him.
But that’s only half of the coin. Dorian’s truth is finally out there, but that doesn’t mean Billie’s most devoted fans will accept it. They could dig their heels in deeper, his admission that he is in love with someone else sending them on a crusade. They could call his appeal an excuse.
I switch to Billie’s accounts, expecting to see the usual backlash. People screaming that Dorian is a liar, a cheater, a fraud. But they’re not.
After Billie’s meltdown, her intoxicated rant, and the accident, even the most skeptical, angry voices quiet down. No one is tearing Dorian down.
The comments—all of them—are for Billie.
Billie, please get help.
