“No,” I bite out. “I’m not. MediaCorp, Liam?” I demand. “Really?”
Liam blanches. “Eliza,” he begins, but I hold my hand up to stop him.
“Not here.” I’m on the verge of totally losing it, screaming at the top of my lungs, and I don’t want to take anything away from Verity’s night. “Outside.”
Liam nods wordlessly. I keep my hand on his arm in case he gets it into his head to try and escape—insane, maybe, but in this moment I have no idea what he’s capable of.
I have no idea who he is at all.
I pull him out of the bar, through the elegant hotel lobby, and out onto the street, leading him far enough away from the hotel’s entrance that no one from the party will overhear us. It started to mist while we were inside, raindrops visible in the glow from the streetlights, as taxicabs turn their wipers on and the city street takes on an oily rainbow sheen. It’s the kind of thing I’d normally think was beautiful—romantic, even—but not tonight.
“Is it true?” I demand, and even if I didn’t already know the answer the haunted look on Liam’s face would be enough to give it away.
Damn.
I step back, reeling. Trying to process the news.
It’s true. He’s selling us out. “Does Celeste know?” I ask.
Liam shakes his head. “No,” he admits quietly. “Not yet.”
It hits me like a full-force blow to the middle of the chest. “So, what?” I demand. “This whole restructuring thing was all just a ploy to attract a buyer? You come in and pretend to turn things around, and meanwhile, sell the place out from under us?”
He shakes his head. “It’s not like that,” he protests. “I was waiting until after Verity’s big celebration for us to—"
“How magnanimous of you,” I snap, interrupting. I don’t want to hear his excuses. “Really, they should make you CEO of the year.”
Liam’s shoulders drop. “Eliza—”
“Was this always the plan?” I ask, aching with betrayal. It’s raining harder now, drops collecting in Liam’s dark hair and on his shoulders. I’m getting soaked too, but I can’t make myself care. “For you to let us put in months of work—to let me put in months of work—and then just sell us off to the highest bidder for the sake of making a profit?”
Liam bristles at that. “I told you this might happen,” he begins. “From the very beginning, I—”
“Yeah, you said it might happen!” I argue. “Unless we figured out a way to turn a profit. Which we did, thanks to Verity.”
Liam shakes his head. “And now what?” he asks. “Verity would need to write a book a month to keep Sterling afloat long-term, and we both know that’s not about to happen.”
“Oh, I’m sorry writing a book isn’t as quick as going to the drive-thru,” I snap. “I’m sorry my authors take real pride in what they do and that sometimes it takes a couple of tries to make it perfect—”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Liam argues, holding his hands up. “Don’t turn this into another pointless argument about the integrity of what you do.”
My mouth drops open. “Pointless?”
Liam winces. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “The point is, the company is too deep in debt to salvage. Our creditors won’t extend our loans any longer. We’re lucky that Verity’s book made Sterling more attractive to buyers, which means I’ll be able to negotiate better deals for you and your friends—”
“Lucky?!” I explode, interrupting him. I can’t believe he’s even saying this. “I thought we were in this together. A team. But you don’t care if I lose my job!”
Liam sighs. “I’m not going to let that happen,” he says.
“Oh, sure you’re not,” I say with a snarl. “And why should I trust anything you say, exactly?”
“I tried, Eliza!” Liam bursts out, his voice harsh in the night. “The numbers didn’t work.”
I shake my head. I feel like we’re speaking two entirely different languages. I don’t know how I ever thought we understood each other at all. “Some things are more important than numbers,” I argue.
Liam looks stony-faced. “Not this time.”
His words enrage me. I want to lash out in every direction all at once. “I should have trusted my instincts about you,” I say bitterly.
Liam’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shrug, trying to sound careless. “I knew you were an empty suit the moment I met you,” I tell him. “All you care about is the bottom line. You don’t understand that some things are more important than profit.”
“And you’re an impractical romantic with her head in the clouds and no clue how things actually work in the real world!” He fires back. “I’m sorry real life isn’t like one of your precious romance novels, Eliza. But not everything ends with a happily ever after.”
I give a pained laugh. “You’re telling me.”
We stand there a moment in the rain. If this were one of my books, then he’d kiss me right now. He’d say that he was sorry, and that he made the wrong call. That he’d make it up, somehow.
But Liam’s right. It’s not. I can already see the shutters coming down over his expression: That cool, remote look he wore when we first met. And when he speaks, it’s with a low, defeated voice.
“So, I guess this is over then,” he says, and there’s a note of finality in his voice that breaks my heart.
“I guess it is.” I reply.
And then he turns and walks away.
22
Eliza
The following week seeps by in a miserable sludge of heartbreak and loneliness, not mention brutally sudden unemployment. It turns out that senior editor job Jen Hannaford waved under my nose wasn’t quite mine for the taking, so now that Sterling is officially kaput I’ve been scrambling to try and find something else.
Anything else.
I’ve applied to be an editor of a quarterly publication for vintage car enthusiasts. I threw my hat in the ring to be a story coordinator for a software company that specializes in extremely grisly war games. And I wrote a very charming cover letter to go with my application for a job as the salacious sex advice columnist at a low-end men’s magazine, only to have them request my cup size along with my resume. At this point I’d be willing to proofread the copy on a Chipotle takeout bag if it meant I could pay my rent next month.
All that rejection isn’t helping keep my mind off Liam, so in the meantime, I’m cleaning house. I blast Whitney’s greatest hits album as I pack up three huge boxes of old books to haul down to Goodwill, then list a bunch of designer purses on a secondhand site and scrub the shelves of my tiny refrigerator with bleach. I’m trying to decide what to do with my extensive collection of heels—I’ve heard there’s a big market for previously worn shoes on Craigslist, though I don’t really want to think about why—when my phone rings. I’m buried too deep in my closet to get to it in time, but when I press play on my voicemail a woman’s gratingly cheery voice fills my ears.