Page 39 of Fighting Fate
Rory picks up the envelope, shaking out the letter roughly. I can’t read what it says because he angles away from me just enough, but I can tell it’s bad from the way he scrunches it up and throws it back down on the table.
“What’re we doing about it?” he barks, glancing between the two men.
They’re all acting like I’m not here. Rory’s blocking me out of the conversation altogether, while Frank is acting like I’m not relevant to it. But if so, why am I here?
“What are you doing about what?” I ask, prying Rory’s hand off me so that I can bring myself back into their meeting.
Frank and Marcus glance between me and Rory, their gazes obviously avoiding the balled paper in front of us. I’m not sure what I’m about to read, but I steel myself anyway. The doom is palpable as I snatch myself away from Rory when he tries to take it away from me.
“You read it already,” I snap at him.
“You don’t need to.”
“Neither did you.”
“Lo…” My pulse quickens at the morose tone of his voice. It’s not just anger that’s darkening it, but also worry. The concern burning in his eyes has me edging closer as I shake out the crumpled paper.
It looks like it’s part of an old-fashioned writing set. The floral design paper is scented and thin. That’s where the cute nostalgia ends because the words are vile. But there’s one line that hits the hardest. It’s not the money grabbing whore or the gold-digging slut. It’s the least offensive line of the entire letter:
You don’t deserve him.
I keep goingover that one fucking line, and the more times I read it, the deeper it cuts. That’s the thing about the truth: it cuts the deepest and hurts the most.
I’m reading the entire thing again when Rory snatches it from me and crumples it back up. Coiling his arm around my shoulders, he holds me tighter to him while I try to swallow down all the shit that’s bubbling to the surface. Everything that I’ve pushed down over the last four months, since Peter.
“Will,” Frank calls my attention, but I just need a moment to straighten my thoughts out. Of course, he doesn’t wait for me to let it all sink in deeper. He knows what those words are doing to me, and as always, he’s ready to save me.
Throwing some chopsticks at my lap, he presses, “Hey, you! Look at me.”
It takes me a moment, and a long held breath, so I don’t look like a simpering fool. However, when I glance up at him, I get choked up. And as though Rory can sense it, he presses a firm kiss to my head.
“It’s bullshit,” Frank mutters at the same time as Rory whispers, “It’s just a fucking letter.”
We barely know each other, though. Rory doesn’t know the shitty things I’ve done. He doesn’t know the person I can be or how true those words are. Still, I nod and shrug, plastering a smile on my face so we can move on from this.
“This is why we need to know what’s going on,” Marcus says. “We’re not just here for the business side of things or so we can manage the press. Our job is to look after you in every way.”
“It’s just a letter,” I breathe out Rory’s statement, forcing myself to expel all the shit that goes with it. As hard as it is to push the clusterfuck of nagging thoughts aside, I shake myself out of my funk and sit up.
The note might have hit me where it hurts, but I’m a big girl. If there’s one thing I don’t take kindly to, it’s bullies.
“There’ll be more,” Marcus states, scrolling through his phone. “And it’s not just the hate mail you’ve got to be prepared for. I’ve dealt with shit like this more times than I can tell you, and it always escalates before it settles.”
“We need to be prepared for this. So if this is a serious thing”—Frank gestures between me and Rory—“we need to know. If it’s not…”
“Let it go. End it,” Marcus finishes for him, but he’s not done. “Rory, there’s too much at stake right now to get on the wrong side of the press and to be focusing on nutjob fans. You have two big fights to get ready for. If the build-up fight with Johnson goes bad—”
“It’s a thing,” Rory cuts him off brusquely, dryly. The anger edging his voice is sharp enough that it chills me to the core when he gets to his feet and tugs me up with him.
“Rory…” I attempt to appeal to his usual measured side, but it’s pointless because his rage is a storm that I’ve never seen before. However, I feel it twist my insides. And although I’m certain he’d never hurt me, the shadow of it has my heart punching into my ribs.
“Get your shit and let’s go,” he grinds out.
I do as he said, putting my denim jacket on before I grab my Chanel crossbody from the table along with my phone.
“Serious or not, a thing is a thing,” Rory barks at Marcus and Frank. “We are a thing. And your only concern should be your fucking jobs. Manage the press, and burn the fucking letter.”
In a swift motion, he grasps my hand, twining our fingers as we head out of the conference room.