Chapter 32
Louis's Pov.
The world tilted on its axis as the press conference ended, leaving us reeling and disoriented. Claire, her face still streaked with tears, leaned heavily against me as we navigated the throng of startled guests, their whispers a buzzing undercurrent.
Suddenly they were a cacophony of reporters surging towards the entrance, hoping to badger us with questions we were not willing to answer. Promptly, security guards, trained to deflect chaos, formed a human barricade, their broad backs shielding Claire and me from the impending media storm, whisking us away towards the sanctuary of my office.
The door slammed shut behind us, a flimsy barrier against the impending storm. No sooner were we alone than Claire turned on me, her green eyes blazing with a fury that momentarily eclipsed the pain etched on her face. A stinging slap echoed in the sterile silence, the sound of her pent-up emotions finally exploding.
"You!" she spat, her voice raw. "This is all your fault! You could have stopped this. You could have done something!"
"Claire," I began, wincing but not reacting defensively. The sting of the slap was insignificant compared to the tempestuous emotions churning within her. "What exactly would you have had me do?”
Claire looked at me with burning rage. "You could have paid them off, intimidated them. You could have done something to stop this. Now it’s too late, and our lives are about to become a circus. These journalists will hound us from now on."
What Claire was saying was true to an extent. I could have made an offer or done something morally bankrupt, but I chose not to, especially after what my mother told me.
A few days back, after I informed my mother about the women coming forward to accuse my late father of sexual assault, she was emotionally wrecked by the information at first.
But after regaining composure, she ordered me not to interfere. She said, and I quote, "The women deserve justice, and they will get justice. Let's be on the right side of history by supporting these women. That way, the blowback won't be so harsh on the company." My mother also advised me to distance myself from my father and father-in-law. With the help of the PR firm I hired, this wouldn't affect the company so badly. I was shocked at first when my mother told me all this, but then I remembered her activist past.
I told Claire, "I am not going to buy those women's silence, because if I do, I wouldn't stop paying for it. They will keep asking for more money. Haven't you heard the saying, 'once a mouth starts eating, it becomes committed'?"
Claire slumped into a chair, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "But we could have afforded it," she muttered, the anger fading into a weary resignation. "Whatever amount they demanded, we could have handled it.”
My heart ached for her. She looked so fragile, so lost. But I couldn't budge. "It's too late for that now. We have to focus on damage control. I've hired a PR firm, the best in the business, to help us navigate this storm."
And then, like a bombshell exploding in the already volatile atmosphere, Claire dropped another truth. "I don't need this stress right now," she choked out, a tremor running through her voice. "Louis, I'm pregnant.”
The revelation slammed into me like a physical blow. The weight of the accusations, the impending media frenzy, suddenly seemed insignificant compared to the life growing within Claire. "What?" I breathed, my voice stripped bare of everything but raw surprise.
Claire's eyes softened for a moment, the anger dissipating. "Yes, I am pregnant, I found out a few days ago. I didn't want to tell you like this, but with everything going on, I couldn't keep it in."
I stood there, processing her words. A mix of emotions surged through me—shock, confusion. "Claire, is the baby mine?"
***********
Charlie's Pov.
The fluorescent lights in my cubicle buzzed like angry bees, the droning noise a perfect match for my own frustration. None of my guys, not a single one, were willing to risk their necks for Mr. DuPont's “little” problem. Cowards, all of them.
Grabbing my phone, I dialed a number I hadn't called in a while. "Skeeter," I growled, "I need to see you now. It is urgent."
There was silence for a beat, then Skeeter's gravelly voice. "I am free right now, Charlie. Come to the yard."
The yard. A sprawling compound tucked into the grimy underbelly of L.A, most tourists wouldn't dare to tread.
As I pulled up, Skeeter, a walking canvas of tattoos etched onto his pale skin, materialized out of the gloom with his usual entourage flanking him. His black hair seemed to defy gravity and his blue eyes held a coldness that could make even the bravest cop flinch, and it promised violence as readily as a handshake.
"Got a problem on my hands, Skeeter," I started, laying out the situation. "I need to get some women to shut their traps."
He took a long drag from his cigarette, smoke curling from his lips like a dying ember. "Shut 'em up permanently, or just a temporary arrangement?”
I slid a folder across the rickety table. "No killing. That would be too messy. I need you to help me frame them, scare them enough they won't utter a peep. Some powerful men are going to fall if these women talk, understand? You keep their mouths shut, and you will be handsomely rewarded."
He glanced at the folder, then back at me. "Handsomely, huh? Sounds good to me."
A wave of relief washed over me. At least I wouldn't have to resort to more drastic measures. "Excellent."
But before I could elaborate, Skeeter let out a barking laugh. "You're late, Charlie."
My stomach lurched. "What do you mean by that?"
He motioned to one of his guys, who held up a flickering phone displaying a news feed. My blood ran cold. There they were, the very women I needed silenced, spilling their guts on a live press conference. Damn it all, I was too late.”
Relief. A wave so unexpected it almost knocked me off my feet. I hadn't planned on hurting them anyway.
Getting back in my car, I left the yard behind, a strange lightness settling in my chest. “I didn't have to get my hands dirty after all,” I exclaimed.