Page 68 of Babies for the Big Shot
Of me and Sara… in the gala cloak room.
She’s leaning into me. Her hand is on my chest. My face is too close to hers. Intimate. Definitive. There is no mistaking what’s happening in that moment. No chance of explaining it away as anything other than what it was.
Private.
Except now it isn’t.
There’s no note. No context. No warning.
Just the image.
I turn it over. Nothing.
No writing. No watermark. No message.
No threats. Not yet.
Just a picture.
But it’s enough.
My jaw tightens. My chest contracts. My pulse climbs. Who took this? Why have they sent it to me now?
The photograph goes into the drawer and I shut it. Hard.
What the fuck?
Is thisevidence? Someone building a case against me? I need todosomething, anything, even if it ends up being something I might regret.
So I reach for my phone.
Not to call Sara.
Not yet.
Instead, I scroll through my contacts and land on a name I’ve been deliberately avoiding.
Rebecca.
The phone rings twice. Then she answers.
“Well, this is unexpected,” she drawls. “Nick Ashford, calling me during business hours. Let me guess… you’ve finally realized how dull your life is without me.”
“Rebecca.” My tone is flat. Measured. “I need to ask you something.”
“Mmm. That sounds serious. Is this foreplay or a trap?” A beat. “Or are you calling to schedule lunch? You never contact me during the day unless you need something.”
“I do need something,” I say. “Information.”
She sighs. Theatrical. Bored. “How disappointingly transactional. And here I thought you missed me.”
I exhale through my nose. “Did you send me a photo?”
A pause. Just long enough to register.
“What kind of photo?” she replies, too light. Too unconcerned. “Because if it’s the one from Maui, I told you to delete that years ago.”
I don’t respond to the bait.
