It claws at me, a continuous prickling sensation that draws my muscles tight with the tension that continually threatens to pull me under. Having to appear unaffected in front of everybody is arduous, but a necessary undertaking in order to maintain my status quo, both personal and professional. Shielding those around me from everything within my power has now become my sole focus. All of it is on my shoulders, a burden I’ll willingly bear until there is no onus to continue doing so.

“Another would be great, Cal,” Luce replies, her voice soft, eyes now full of understanding. She holds out her glass to me and I take it with me to the kitchen.

“Yeah, me too,” Heather adds, before turning toward Glen.

Grant is uncharacteristically silent, and more disconcerting than Lucia’s knowing concern is my best friend knowing exactly what my thought process is in moments like these. He’s been by my side throughout the highs and lows of our careers—when we started Alexander Richardson, when we made our first public tender, when we lost our first design proposal to a bigger firm, working eighteen-hour days with me to perfect the Spera House design right down to checking and double-checking every minute detail.

“I’ll help with the drinks,” Grant says, standing up and following me to the kitchen. When we’re out of earshot of the others, he puts his hand on my bicep to stop me. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

An undignified snort escapes me. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I put the glasses down on the counter and brace my arms against it.

“You may be able to shield your family from the shit swirling around you right now, but you can’t pull the wool over my eyes and definitely not Lucia’s.”

“I’m not—”

“You fucking well are. You’re here, you’re smiling, you’re acting like you’re normal, but it’s not you.” His eyes are blazing. He’s trying to rein in his frustration, and I’m thankful in this instance that his back is to the rest of the room.

“Grant . . .” I warn in a low voice.

“You do not have to put on that damn caricature in front of any of us, but back there, you gave us the Callum Alexander people expect. You don’t have to do that with us, and I’m pissed off that you felt you had to.”

“Grant . . .” My voice is slightly louder, and definitely more threatening.

“You need to at least try to relax, Cal. I don’t want to be left with a company to run by myself when you have a fucking heart attack from too much stress.”

“There’s more to it.”

“Now why does that not surprise me? Look at me, Cal. I’m not just a chump you work with, and if you can’t unload on me, you’ve also got one hell of a woman over there who would walk over hot coals just to be by your side. You’re not alone in this. It’s my company too, my name being dragged through the mud as well.”

“You didn’t have your sexual exploits described in detail in a national publication,” I say, stepping toward the fridge to pull out Lucia’s wine before turning and pouring it into the glass.

“No, but at least there was nothing in there that would turn you into a pariah either. It could’ve been worse. Imagine if—“

“Let’s not and say we never bring that up,” I retort.

“We’ll get through this, Cal. Everyone knows this for the witch hunt it’s designed to be—a fabricated one at that. Tall poppy syndrome in its most destructive form.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Mud sticks—shit sticks more. If this continues, it could cause untold damage to the business, our name, the firm. What about our staff?” Every word increases, the tension stabbing at me like a knife—sharp, menacing, and unrepentant in its viciousness. My body, tired from weeks of constant ‘fight or flight’ mode, is waning in the face of continuous and unrelenting attacks from all sides.

“We have contingencies, Cal. You’re not in this alone. We fought our way from the unknown abyss to where we stand today and it’ll take more than a woman scorned—”

“Or two . . .”

“Touché—or two—to cut our legs off. What they all seem to forget is that we’ve each got a third leg that’s more powerful than anything else.” He winks at me, a wide smile on his lips.

I shake my head in exasperation, his words—and support—releasing at least some of the stress threatening to drag me under. “Thanks.” I say. “And on that note, I think a cigar on the balcony is in order.”

“Now that is the best idea you’ve had all night. Barring, of course, the offer of a threesome with Lucia later tonight, but I’ll wait till she asks me about that before respectively declining.”

“Asshole.”

“Yep, but I’m the best asshole you know.”

“Mr. Alexander?” Annie says, from the doorway to my office.

Bent over a new design on my drafting table, I put my pencil down and turn to look at her. “Yes?” I give her the fake smile, the one that tells her everything is fine when in reality, fine seems to be unattainable and unreachable at the present time. Distraction seems to be the key to retaining the façade that everything swirling around my life is not turning me inside out with every new development.

“Jodi Malestrom is downstairs in the lobby wanting to see you. Security stopped her from entering the elevators, but if the noise over the phone is anything to go by, she is rather adamant that she needs to speak to you.”

My back goes rigid, my mood morphing into one of anger at the audacity of Jodi. How can a woman guilty of betraying my confidence feel she has the right to cause a scene in the lobby of my building, no doubt in front of a swarm of photographers and undoubtedly, reporters as well?

“Annie, can you please call the lobby and inform them that Ms. Malestrom is to be escorted off the property and advised that she will be forcibly removed in future.

“I will do that, Mr. Alexander.”

“Is Mr. Richardson in his office?” I ask.

“Yes. Would you like me to call him in?”

“It’s okay. You deal with the disturbance downstairs. That takes precedence,” I reply.

“Will do,” she says, spinning on her heels and disappearing from sight.

Walking over to my desk, I grab my phone and push Grant’s speed dial. Frustration flows through me, my shoulders bracing themselves tight in anticipation of the next expected blow. They’re coming so thick and fast that I’m in a constant state of preparedness. How anybody handles me at the moment is a mystery—and a miracle.

The phone rings a few times before Grant picks up.

“Hey, is it weekday whisky time already?” I chuckle half-heartedly, but Grant growls in response. “What’s happened now?”

“I think we’re beyond whisky. Jodi is in the lobby, causing a scene.”

“She thinks she has that right?” he scoffs.

“Apparently so.”

“Have security escort her from the premises.”

“Annie is organizing that now. Is Graves with you?”

“He just walked out the door, heading toward his desk. Why’s that?”

“I just thought he could act as an intermediary with her. They were at the dinner together; I almost thought they might have been involved.”

“Then wouldn’t she have tried to get to you through him if she really wanted to talk to you?”

“You’d assume so, but given her recent behavior and actions of late, one can’t be so sure.”

“Do you want me to ask him to go down and talk to her?”

“I think it might be for the best. I may not like the woman, but calling the police on her would not be a good public relations move for us right now. Innocent or not, we’re under the microscope and we do not want to give Carmen Dallas and the Tribune any more ammunition to light an even bigger fire beneath us.”

“Point taken. I’ll come see you when I’m done,” he says before ending the call.