Besides, a king has no need for the opinion of his peasants, and he’d have no qualms about knocking me off my proverbial high horse in two seconds flat. Not only that, but a man with his kind of influence could take it a step further and have me blacklisted from the entire industry with a single email.
If he wanted to.
I don’t know if he’s the vengeful type, because at the end of the day, I barely know the man.
And I’m not alone.
For someone under such a spotlight, his personal life is under strict lock and key. Nothing but rumors too outlandish to fact-check contrasted with details too vague to matter. While I have an impressive knack for finding just about anything about just about anyone on the internet, any and all searches on this notorious mystery man lead to a sea of red-carpet Getty images (he’s always alone, never with a date) and a handful of carefully curated Made Man interviews.
Through picking apart bits and pieces online, I’ve been able to glean three personal truths about West Maxwell: he grew up in some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Nebraska town; his favorite restaurant is Il Postino on East Sixty-First Street, where he has standing Thursday-night reservations at a private table in the kitchen; and he wears a size 13 shoe.
But what I want to know—all I’ve ever wanted to know—is what made him so cruel.
“If there are no further questions or comments, you’re all free to leave,” West drones under his breath as he checks his phone. Peering up at me, he adds, “Except you.”
I press a finger into my chest, my heart ricocheting at warp speed. “I’m sorry?”
“Sorry for what?” He delivers his response with a sarcastic sneer as he watches the room clear out.
“You want to talk to . . . me?”
I didn’t think he knew my name . . .
His full lips curl at one side, flashing a deep dimple that manages to weaken my knees without permission.
There’s no denying the man is a work of art.
But he’s also a piece of work.
“You write that column for me . . . The Dirty Truth . . . yes?” he asks, referring to the monthly regular I write as a modern woman telling our male readers “what we ladies really think” about their habits, interests, dating moves, bedroom skills, and more.
Only it’s all bullshit.
It’s only ever things men want to hear.
When I first started here, the first thing my editor made clear was that no one is interested in the truth. The truth is painful, and no one’s going to drop six bucks on a magazine only to feel like shit for the entire hour it takes to read it.
Made Man’s entire business model is centered on inspiring the everyman to be the best version of himself. You don’t have to be rich, handsome, good in bed, or successful to have it all—but we can show you how. It is, after all, how our founding father got his start. He was a nobody (rumor has it), and then he became a somebody. Now he has a legion of dedicated followers convinced that if they do everything he did, they’ll become everything he is.
If they only knew what he’s really like . . .
“Yes.” My throat swells, but I manage to swallow. “That’s my column.”
“The one you turned in last week . . . not your best work.” His phone dings, and he steals a glimpse at a long text that fills his entire screen. Pursing his lips, he adds, “I need you to give me something else.”
Those articles don’t manifest from thin air. They require careful planning. Loads of research. Late-night cocktails and hours-long conversations with colleagues and guy friends to get their opinions before I bite the bullet, topic-wise. I can’t just . . . plop down in front of my computer and hammer out a new one.
Not to mention, the one I turned in for next week I wrote while I was out on medical leave. I wasn’t even supposed to be working, yet I did it anyway because working here screws with you worse than an abusive ex-boyfriend. You know he’s bad for you, and you know you’re the one putting in all the effort in the relationship, but you love what he offers you. Financial security, an enviable lifestyle, hope that the life you’ve always dreamed of is within arm’s reach if you keep those blinders up and trudge forward, loyal and true.
“We go to print in three days,” I say. The space around us turns blurry and the air thick, hot. “Everything’s already been submitted and edited—”
I don’t dare ask him why he didn’t share his feelings when he first signed off on everything a week ago . . .
He doesn’t look up as he taps out a message on his phone. “We’ll make it work.”