Page 8 of One Pucking Secret
Her words aren’t just a statement; they’re a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that I’m more than ready to pick up. “I’m ready to sign whenever you are.”
“Wyatt and Mark will be here shortly.”
“Great,” I respond, mentally rearranging my day to accommodate this unexpected turn of events.
Janelle stands up, signaling the end of our meeting. “Thanks again, Chloe. I know you won’t let me down.” Her words carry a weight of expectation, a belief in my abilities that has always driven me to push harder, reach further.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply with a confidence I’m not entirely sure I feel. But there’s no room for doubt if I want this promotion. Which I do, more than anything.
As I exit Janelle’s office, everything seems different, charged with a new purpose. Any minute now, I’ll be sitting across from Wyatt Banks.
My chest tightens at the thought, a swirl of anticipation and dread mixing in my gut. It’s not just the memories of what happened between us, though those are hard enough to face—it’s the vulnerability. The unanswered questions. The hurt that still simmers beneath the surface, no matter how much I try to bury it.
And now, I have to delve into a story that the public has only seen one side of. It’s my job to find the other side, to craft a narrative that can change perceptions, alter opinions.
But can I separate my emotions from my work? Will I be able to pull it off without breaking?
This is it, my chance to prove myself. Wyatt Banks might be a challenge, but I’ve never backed down from one before. Yet this feels different, like the stakes are personal thistime—not just professional. And that scares me more than I want to admit.
Lainey is already on her feet at her cubicle, her eyes locking onto mine with an inquisitive gleam. “Hey, what happened in there? Are we about to have a 29-year-old VP around here?”
“Wyatt Banks happened.”
“What?” Lainey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What about Wyatt?”
I glance around the busy office, acutely aware of prying ears. “Let’s talk in there,” I suggest, nodding toward an empty conference room. Once inside with the door safely closed behind us, I take deep breaths to steady myself.
“Wyatt’s gotten himself into some heavy shit and needs a publicist to clean up his mess. He’s on his way over here with his agent right now.” The words feel surreal, even as they leave my lips.
Lainey’s eyes widen. “No fucking way! Won’t this be the first time you’ve seen him since you two hooked up that night in college? What are you going to do?”
I shrug, a gesture that feels more like a defense mechanism than a response. “My job, I guess. What else can I do? If I don’t work with Wyatt, I won’t get that promotion.”
“But he ghosted you. Are you going to be able to handle it?” It’s a question I’ve wrestled with for years in the silent hours of the night. What I would do if I ever saw Wyatt again? After all this time, I still hadn’t decided.
“I have no other choice,” I reply, a faint sense of resignation in my tone. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the talk. I’m going to prepare for the meeting before he gets here.” My words are final, a silent plea for understanding. Thankfully, my best friend knows me better than anyone and gives me exactly what I need.
“You’ve got this, Chloe.”
As Lainey leaves, I find myself momentarily alone, the quiet of the room wrapping around me like a cocoon.
Leaning against the cool wall, I unlock my phone and take a long look at the images and social media posts: Sonia’s tear-streaked face, Wyatt’s mouth wide open, presumably mid-shout, his hands raised aggressively. The snapshot paints him as the villain in a story that’s spiraling out of control—a story I can’t reconcile with the man I remember.
“Blown out of proportion,” I murmur to myself, the words a soft puff of vapor in the chilled corridor. My thumb hovers over the screen, the flood of comments and sharesbeneath that damning photo like a riptide dragging Wyatt’s reputation under.
I’ve built careers from fewer, resurrected reputations thought long past salvaging. But this is personal—Wyatt, with his brooding presence and a heart I never quite managed to unlock, now the center of a scandal that stands between me and my promotion.
“Allegations,” I whisper, trying the word on for size, but it feels foreign, ill-fitting. Sonia’s claims of verbal abuse and anger issues echo around my skull, discordant with the memory of Wyatt’s calm, collected demeanor. Yet, what do I truly know? One night—eight years ago, a brief footnote in the novel of Wyatt Banks’s life—hardly gives me enough insight to judge a man’s character. Doubt lingers, like a splinter lodged in my resolve.
The door clicks open and jolts me back to reality.
“Chloe?” the front desk receptionist says, peeking around the doorframe and pulling me from my research. “Wyatt Banks and Mark Turner are in the conference room.”
I nod. “Coming.”
On my way to a different, but identical conference room, I square my shoulders and smooth the fabric of my blazer, a silent mantraplaying on a loop in my head: Stay immune to Wyatt Banks.
The cold metal of the doorknob beneath my palm calls me back to the present moment as I linger outside the room. With a deep breath, I push through the door, stepping into the lion’s den. The chatter falls to a hush as all eyes land on me. There he sits, Wyatt Banks, as imposing as ever—wavy black hair, over six feet tall with a body built by relentless sportsmanship, and those piercing blue eyes that once held promises of something more.
