The headline read, Soon to Publish Book About Billionaire Maxwell Cole—Fiction or Truth?
I went on to read all about Nancy Little’s upcoming tell-all and the claims it brought against him. But then the article went on to talk about me. My degree from Stanford, my hometown of Santa Barbara, how I’d recently been hired in a senior position without any experience—a lie—and how I was Max’s lover—not a lie. The article included the photo from my C.C. employee badge, and the closing sentence spared nothing… Suffice it to say that if allegations are true, Mr. Cole’s definition of ugly would have to be grossly distorted. His current romantic interest, in this reporter’s opinion, is no beauty.
The words were extremely hurtful, but they were tame compared to the two online tabloids I’d checked. Words like “ugly creature” and “a face that could frighten small children” were used.
There were no words or enough space in my heart to contain the devastation and humiliation I felt.
I closed my laptop, reeling with anger and hurt. The only explanation I could come up with was that Maxwell Cole had done this to me. Him. He’d used me to create irrefutable evidence that the book was a lie.
My heart shattered into a thousand little fucking ugly shards of hate. How could I have been so blind? Yet, the signs had been there all along, and I simply refused to see them. Mr. Cole’s sudden interest in me. His insistence in hiring me for a position higher than the one I applied for, giving me an office, and promises of the perfect future. The way he’d taken me to Milan, bought me a nice dress and put me up in an expensive hotel room. He blinded me with all that glamour and the dazzle. Then, he pushed back against my having surgery—would look bad for him—meanwhile he tried to flaunt our relationship.
I had been his plan all along, and I’d fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. He knew exactly what a woman like me wanted to hear—after all, he was the master at selling things to my gender.
You’re a fucking idiot, Lily. A stupid, fucking idiot. I would bet that those first pictures that came out about me in the tabloids were no coincidence either.
I went over to the wastepaper basket—Danny never emptied shit around here, and I’d been gone most of the time—and there it was. I dialed and put my cell to my ear.
“Nancy? It’s Lily Snow. What do you want to know?”
~~~
It took forty minutes, on the record, to tell Nancy everything. This time, I told the truth, except for one thing: I did not tell her that I loved him. I knew that I did because there was no possible way I could be hurting this badly if I didn’t.
I sent a text to my mother, guessing from the lack of texts and calls that she hadn’t seen or heard anything yet…
Me: When you see the news, please don’t worry. I’m coming home. Be there soon.
I knew she and my father would freak the hell out. And for a mother to have to hear the world call her child an “ugly creature” or accuse me of being some sort of slut because I’d slept with my boss—one man, whom I loved…
Loved. Past tense.
I hung my head and gathered myself as best I could. This was not going to blow over—not for me, anyway. And Mr. Cole would come out looking like a champion for women and sell a ton of makeup with the free press. Just like he’d said. He’d turn this into a million dollars of sales. He was now, and officially, the most desirable man in the world who only dated women whose “souls turned him on,” because unlike the other PR stunts of him merely being seen in public with unattractive women, the press couldn’t poke holes through claims that he was really dating me. The nude photos, though taken at night, of him fucking me senseless on his private beach said it all. Add up all of the other photos, and it told a story of a man who didn’t seem to have any phobia whatsoever.
You’re a fucking genius, Mr. Cole. A marketing genius. And he was a coldhearted, greedy fucking bastard. I never thought him capable of such cruelty.
I grabbed my suitcase from the closet and packed up all of my essentials. I’d call Danny later to fill her in and work something out on the rent so she wouldn’t be left high and dry.
Before I left the building, I left a quick goodbye note for Mrs. Jackson, telling her I’d miss our little chats, and then took one final breath. I couldn’t stand the thought of facing all of those reporters outside, but if I had to go through this, I needed to be with my family.
The moment I emerged from my building, they hit me like a swarm of stinging bees, shouting horrible insults posed as questions.
I pushed my way to the car, trying not to bawl, but the tears were there. And these heartless assholes wouldn’t let me get to my car.
“Get the fuck out of my face!” I yelled. I finally lost it and pushed some guy with a camera out of my way. He fell back and lost his grip.
Bastard deserved it. Why were they being so aggressive? I was a nobody.
Finally in my car, my suitcase shoved into the passenger seat, I got out of the parking lot, thinking they’d let me go. They didn’t. Several vans with satellite dishes followed me onto the highway.
I can’t fucking believe it. Were they going to get on the plane with me, too? Should I keep on driving all the way to California? I didn’t know what to do, and the only thing I wanted was to get away.
My phone rang, and when I saw the caller ID pop up on my car’s console, I flipped. Max…
“You fucking sonofabitch! How could you?” I yelled.
“Lily, calm the hell down. I’m at your apartment; where are you?”
I whisked away the tears from my face. “Where am I? Where am I?” I yelled. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I was trying to keep you out of this while I tried to—”
“Fuck you, Mr. Cole. Fuck you to hell.” I was so, so in this, and he’d put me there!
“Lily, please listen to me. I would never—”
“Don’t ever call me again. Do you hear me? Don’t come near me or so help me I will kill you.”
Words of anger, surely, but I meant them in that moment. I honestly envisioned wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing the life out of him. How could he? How?
“Lily, you need to—”
I hung up the phone, my entire body shaking with rage. I couldn’t think or breathe or—
I looked over my shoulder at the news camera in the fast lane to my left, filming me have an epic breakdown while driving eighty miles an hour.
What is wrong with these people? Why was my life falling apart so fascinating?
When I turned my head to change lanes and move away from them, I almost hit another car passing me like an idiot on the right. I overcorrected, jerking the car left, and then it just kept on going. I plowed my car into the center divider.
The moments after the accident were a blur, mostly seen through a sheet of blood that poured into my eyes. I remembered screaming voices, sirens, and pain. Lots of pain. In my back, my arm, and my face.
When I came to, the drug-induced fog wasn’t enough to kill the agony, and I knew there was major damage all over my body.
I groaned and lifted my hand to my face. It was covered in bandages, and I couldn’t help but laugh. If I’d been ugly before, I was hideous now.
“Lily?” said a kind-sounding female voice. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I mumbled.
“I’m Haley, your nurse. Do you know where you are?”
“In the hospital.” And I need more drugs…
“That’s right. You’ve been in an accident. The doctor will be here in a moment to check on you, but you’ve just come out of surgery, and I want to ask you a few questions.”