Page 52 of The Press Secretary's Passion
I make my way back down the hall toward my office, when suddenly, I’m grabbed by the arm and pulled into a dark, vacant office. The door closes behind us with a snick, and I’m pushed against the wall. I open my mouth to let out a scream, but a large hand covers my mouth.
“Hush.” I instantly still at the sound of a voice I recognize. “Are you going to scream if I move my hand?”
I shake my head, and he moves his hand, but he does not step away from where he has me pinned with his body against the wall in a dark room.
“Ryan?” I whisper.
“Yeah, babe.”
“Why did you kidnap me?” I ask quietly.
“I need some answers,” he responds cryptically.
“Okay.”
“What the fuck was that?”
“What the fuck was what?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to the question.
“The tape?” he thunders in hushed tones.
“I didn’t make it,” I say, and anger pours through my body and I see red at his accusation. “Wait a minute. Do you think I made it?”
“Babe, you have to see that is the logical conclusion.”
“You’re really something, you know that?” I snap as I realize that like all the men—hell, all the people, period, end of—in my family, Ryan is just fucking like them. Not one person thinks I might just be a decent human being with hopes and dreams, thoughts and feelings of my own. Everyone is out to use me or expects to be used, and it’s disgusting.
“Jules—” he starts, but I don’t let him finish. I buck against him.
“Let me go,” I demand, because I can’t stand to be in this room, this close to him, for a minute longer.
“Jules, listen—”
“No,” I snap. Suddenly, I’m close to tears. My emotions are riding me hard, and I can’t help it, but what I can help is the situation. It’s time I start standing up for myself. I can’t be Ryan’s doormat any longer. “I need you to let me go.”
“Honey, stop,” he says, but I don’t care. I fight harder. I need to get away from here, from him, from his soft voice that makes me purr like a kitten.
“No.”
“Stop,” he commands. “Before you hurt yourself.”
“No!” I cry. “You stop. You’re hurting me.”
He instantly lets me go at my words.
“Baby, please.”
“No,” I repeat, wrapping my arms around my waist. “I’m not strong enough for this. No more honeyed words or pet names, no more late-night trysts, and no more dark office conversations. I’m not this person. There is no duplicitous bone in my body. You may think I’m that kind of political mercenary, that I would take a video of us on a night, I’ll remind you, that you instigated, and I tried to avoid. And then you feel like I’m the kind of woman who would then publish a video of an intimate, private moment between us for some reason that I’m not sure of. So we’re done, here and anywhere. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Are you done?” he asks me.
“Well… yeah.”
“Good, then it’s my turn,” he says, and I feel my belly drop into my shoes. This is not good, and I need to get out of here.
“Ryan,” I whisper. I can hear the panic in my voice, and by the white flash of his smile in the dark, I can tell he hears it too. I need to get out of here like yesterday. I should have gone on safari when I had the chance and never came back, and now it’s too late. “Let me go.”
“No,” he says as he presses in. He crowds me against the wall again, and the hard heat of his body presses into mine. He has me cornered, and I have nowhere to go. “You had your chance to talk, and now it’s mine.”
