Chương 11
I folded my arms.
"Do you want me to say I handled it badly?"
"I want you to stop pretending your experiment was harmless."
I went still.
He continued before I could answer.
"You wanted to know who would love Emma Cooper."
"Yes."
"But Emma Cooper wasn't real."
My face heated.
"She was me."
"Partly."
"Everything I did was real."
"The work, the apartment, the car, yes."
His voice stayed quiet.
"But you controlled the one fact that could change how people understood every choice you made."
I looked away.
A stack of folded table linens sat on a cart beside us.
One had fallen halfway to the floor.
I bent automatically and tucked it back into place.
My father watched me.
"I hated being William Harrison's daughter."
The words came out before I intended them to.
His face changed.
"I know."
"No, you know I hated the attention."
"What's the difference?"
"I hated the way people became different around me."
He said nothing.
"The second they knew, everything changed."
"Sometimes."
"Almost always."
"Then you should have learned to judge the change."
"I wanted one person who didn't change."
My voice cracked.
He looked down.
"Your mother used to say the same thing."
"She had you."
"Eventually."
I gave him a tired look.
He almost smiled.
"Before that, she thought I was an arrogant ass."
"Was she wrong?"
"Not entirely."
We started walking again.
At the end of the corridor, Howard waited beside a gray service elevator.
He ended his call as we approached.
"We have another issue."
My father sighed.
"Of course we do."
Howard looked at me.
"Someone leaked the messages."
My stomach dropped.
"What messages?"
"The screenshots from Clarissa's iPad."
I stared at him.
"How?"
"We don't know yet."
"Are they online?"
"Some are."
My father swore.
Howard continued.
"Most accounts are framing the ballroom incident as a deliberate attempt to manipulate you for business access."
I felt suddenly cold.
"But we don't know that."
"No."
"Then they can't say that."
"They can say almost anything."
"Can you stop it?"
"Not quickly."
My father pulled out his phone.
Howard pointed at him.
"Still no posting."
"I'm calling legal."
"That I support."
My phone buzzed.
Then buzzed again.
I looked down.
Unknown numbers.
Client emails.
News alerts.
A message from a former college roommate asking whether I was safe.
Then one from Natasha.
I almost ignored it.
Something made me open it.
It contained no apology.
No explanation.
Just one sentence.
You need to know my mother didn't leak those screenshots.
A second message arrived.
Brandon did.
I stopped in front of the service elevator and read Natasha's message again.
Howard watched my face.
"What?"
I turned the screen toward him.
His eyes moved over the two lines.
My father stepped closer.
"Brandon leaked them?"
"That's what she says."
Howard took my phone.
"Do not respond yet."
"I wasn't going to."
"You were absolutely going to."
"I was going to ask why."
"Which is responding."
My father pressed the elevator button hard enough to make it personal.
"Call the officer."
Howard looked toward the corridor behind us.
"Brandon is still with her."
"Then she can ask him."
"She can."
Howard handed the phone back.
"That does not mean we know Natasha is telling the truth."
The elevator doors opened.
Inside, a bellman stood beside three empty luggage carts.
He looked at my father, then at me, then stared very deliberately at the floor numbers.
We stepped in.
Howard pressed the garage level.
Nobody spoke until the doors closed.
My phone buzzed again.
Natasha.
I opened it before Howard could stop me.
I watched him send them.
Then another message.
He emailed them from Mom's iPad to someone before he came downstairs.
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
My father read over my shoulder.
His face hardened.
"That little coward."
"Don't."
"He gave private messages to the press."
"We don't know that."
"His sister says—"
"His sister spent tonight helping their mother humiliate me."
That stopped him.
Howard nodded.
"Exactly."
The bellman stared at the glowing floor indicator as if his future depended on not hearing us.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was Brandon.
Did Natasha contact you?
I looked at Howard.
He held out his hand.
I kept the phone.
The elevator reached the garage.
The doors opened onto concrete, fluorescent light, and the smell of exhaust.
Two hotel security employees waited outside.
One pointed toward a black SUV parked near the loading bay.
"No press down here yet."
"Yet," Howard said.
The bellman pushed his carts past us very quickly.
I typed one word to Brandon.
Why?
Howard saw it.
"Subtle."
"I learned from you."
"Clearly not."
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then returned.
I stood beside the SUV waiting.
My father opened the rear door.
"Get in."
"One second."
"Emma."
"One second."
Brandon's reply arrived.
Because she already told you.
I frowned.
That was not an answer.
I typed again.
Did you leak the screenshots?
The typing indicator appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared.
My father looked at Howard.
"He's stalling."
Howard nodded.
"Probably."
Then the reply came.
Not to the press.
I felt anger rise slowly this time.
Not explosively.
Almost cleanly.
Who?
A pause.
Someone I trust.
I stared at the screen.
"That's not an answer," my father said.
"I know."
Howard leaned against the SUV.
"Ask what he expected them to do with the material."
I typed it.
Brandon replied faster.
Protect me.
I read the words twice.
My father made a disgusted sound.
Howard did not.
He became very still.
"Ask from whom."
I did.
The answer took longer.
My mother.
A car engine started somewhere across the garage.
The sound echoed against concrete.
I thought about Brandon sitting in the conference room saying he had been afraid of Clarissa since he was twelve.
I thought about him finding the messages.
May you like
I thought about him coming downstairs with evidence that made his mother look worse and himself slightly better.
"What does protecting him mean?" I asked.
