Be My Babygirl

And I’ll never forgive him.

When I reach the lobby, I’m sure my face is red, stained with tears. My eyes puffy. My breath is coming in short, little choking bursts.

The doors open, and I remember—the paparazzi is out there. Just waiting to see little tear-stained Katie being kicked out of the penthouse by Daddy Darius.

I’m so drained from sadness, I’ve no idea what to do. I step out of the elevator, dazed, unsure of where to go. I feel a gentle hand on my arm.

“Katie?”

It’s Miranda. Today her platinum hair hangs down in waves, her red dress replaced with skinny jeans and a loose tank top. She looks ten years younger than she did at the Sugar Daddies event—late twenties at most. Her serious expression is missing, the lines of her face are soft, empathetic. She pulls me down the hall, into an office, closing the door behind her.

“Miranda… I… I…” and I burst into another round of sobs.

She takes me in her arms, much more tender than I’d envisioned her being. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head.

“There, there, sweet girl. I’m sure we can fix this somehow. A billionaire man like Mr. Morrow should understand that sometimes we women have to play an extra card from our hand to make it in this world.”

How does she know this quickly? What has the media said? What is she talking about?

“He knew… he knew I was writing the book.”

Patting my back, she shushes me. “Don’t worry about that now. Let’s just get you home safe, without all these journalists attacking you on your way out. You can sort the rest out with Mr. Morrow when the story cools down.”

After the way he looked at me, threw money at me… I’m never speaking to him again. But no need to tell Miranda that. I just need to get home. I throw her a grateful look. “Thank you.”

A few phone calls later, I’m sitting in the back of a food delivery truck, bumping along the road on top of a crate of oranges, headed to my apartment complex. There are journalists all over the street. My grumpy landlord, Mr. Taylor is out by the fence, waving a broom around, trying to keep them off his property.

“Oh, God, I can’t go in.”

The driver looks sympathetic, nods, and comes back a moment later with a huge blue apron, a baseball cap and a big pair of sunglasses. He ties the apron while I hide my hair under the hat. I don the glasses, throw my backpack on my back, my purse over my shoulder and take the crate of oranges he hands me.

I’m just a delivery girl.

For once, I’m grateful for my landlord’s irritable temperament. I slip by, unnoticed, and quickly make it to the door of my apartment. Once I’m inside, after setting my stuff down, I lock the doorknob, flip the deadbolt, then slide the chain in the latch. Still wearing the apron, hat, and glasses, I dash through my apartment, closing the blinds and pulling the curtains shut.

Removing the hat, the glasses, and the apron, I grab an orange and sink down onto my couch. I’m relieved to be in my apartment, alone, at least for a moment. I peel back the thick skin of the fruit, inhaling the citrusy scent. I need to eat something.

Taking a deep breath, I turn on the television, seeing the news stories for the first time since the leak.

It’s terrible, what they’re saying about me. I’m the escort who never really loved Darius but was just after him for his money. Another newscaster claims I targeted him specifically for my book, knowing that with his fame, I’d sell twice as many copies. The accusations go on and on.

I can’t quite understand all this, though. I just sent my novel in. How do they know about this so quickly? I sense foul play, but I can’t figure out how or why.

I sit on my couch, tears in my eyes, my orange forgotten, and my mouth hanging in disbelief. Switching the station to the celebrity gossip channel, I brace myself for more lies. The words, Mr. Morrow, Escort, and used, are constantly repeated.

My tablet sits on my lap, my finger swiping through page after page of articles.

My phone sits beside me, making a bing-bong noise with every text it receives.

I ignore them. I know it’s Sarah, begging me to call her back.

She’ll say she wasn’t the leak, promising me that there isn’t a single person on her staff that she doesn’t trust. But that’s just not possible. The story leaked only twenty-four hours after I hit send. It went to no one else except my publisher.

How could it be Sarah? She’s the only one I really know at the publishing company. We talk on the phone at least once a week, way more when I’ve got a story in the works. She would never do this to me.