The next few days go by without incident. I'm able to lecture the office lovebirds properly, explaining that this is their final warning before serious action is taken. When I discuss the action I've taken to Papa in the weekly check-in, he prods me for information on what White was doing in the lobby a few days ago.
I'm standing before him in his office, a room which looks both nearly identical to mine but somehow entirely different. While my mini-fridge is stocked with water and coffee, Papa's keeps beer and syringes I dare not ask about. Pictures of beautiful women line his desk, trinkets from far away lands and candy wrappers, while I keep mine empty and free of clutter.
"I'm making good progress with him," I inform him directly, calmly. It's better if I frame this as an intentional move on my part. I'm certain he already knows I'm emotionally vulnerable to White's manipulations. Anyone with eyes could discern my lack of practice in the affairs of love and seduction.
"Not gettin' too attached, are ya?" He leans back in his chair, eyeing me with a deadliness that sends chills down my spine. Even if he's being lighthearted in how he says it, I know the implications underneath.
"I'd be lying if I said he wasn't amusing," I smile politely. "But, that's what makes me want to knock him down a peg even more."
Papa seems to approve of this answer. He holds out a piece of candy for me, which I graciously move to accept. He knows butterscotch is my favorite, and he keeps a neat little crystal bowl full of them beside his assorted variety. For some reason or another, it warms my heart that I have a spot on his desk.
However, he holds back. A sinking feeling drops from my throat to my stomach as I search his hands for the next move. He pulls back moves to swivel his monitor towards me. It takes me a moment to adjust to the brightness of his screen in this dimly lit chamber of an office. He taps the top of the monitor, causing it to bounce on its stand slightly.
A news clip is playing, if you can call it that. It's a tabloid running an interview with White, with an image of us embracing on the balcony of the bar, then kissing. He's laughing, acting casual about the situation. When the interviewer asks something, he seems to know exactly what to say to tease the audience.
"Does this mean you're finally going exclusive with someone?" A peppy woman with blonde wavy hair asks in an exaggerated tone. Her demeanor is what one would expect from a friend, rather than a reporter.
"I won't put a label on our relationship," he smiles.
"But there is one?" She presses.
He laughs lightly, smiling at the camera with a knowing expression.
"You are just too cute, ohmygosh. There you have it, a real life Romeo and Juliet story between two of Mariana's apexes."
There's a chilling silence that lingers, until I find it in me to break the tension I've likely made up in my own head. This is nothing more than a mind game. There's nothing for him to have on me, other than my own confession of guilt. As it stands, however, I've done nothing incorrect.
"As I said, I'm making good progress," I remind Papa calmly.
"I see that," he says in an equally matched tone.
I jump back slightly as he thrusts himself from his chair, slamming his fist down on the table in a sudden burst of rage.
"So why the fuck are you letting him take all the fucking credit? You're just going to let him make a fucking fool of us? Romeo and fucking Juliet? ROMEO AND JULIET?"
My heart rate skyrockets, my fists clenched in anxiety. I know better than to ask questions or speak at all in moments like this. All that can be done is accept fault and do better next time.
"Get the fuck out there and FIX THIS. I don't care how. Just get it the fuck done, NOW."
I muster up a, "Yessir," before fleeing the room as quickly as one can without showing overt fear. I can only assume Papa's issue with the situation, without being told outright. I've known him nearly my entire life and so with reasonable certainty, I conclude that issue must be a matter of ratings and narrative control.
I slip into the news studio, using my position of authority to organize a quick interview much akin to White's. The makeup crew doll me up with precision, all the while asking me if the rumors are true.
"What rumors?"
One of the artists feigns surprise, as if it's ridiculous I would ask such a question.
"You're dating Ledger White and he caught you in the elevator with Dixon from Tech!"
All I can do is stare. The rumor mill sure goes crazy fast.
"I heard," the bouncy girl combing my hair pipes up, "that Dixon was watching you two getting freaky in the elevator and White caught him!"
That's somewhat closer to the truth, but somehow I wish it wasn't. I try to placate them with simple denials as they finish sprucing me up. It's a tight fit, but the team is able to squeeze me in for a brief interview in between scheduled programming.
"Live in…
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