Page 6 of Dust Storm

CASSANDRA

Exiled. A smoke trail lingered in my wake as I fled Manhattan like an outlaw on the run. 1,700 miles sat between me and the life I had worked tirelessly to curate.

We need time for things to cool down.

The situation is too volatile.

We’ll bring you back once a new headline has everyone’s attention.

I hated Texas already. The air was so fresh it was nauseating. The breeze was giving me a headache.

Tripp cut his eyes at me as he guided the rental car down the poorly paved service road. “I don’t think a media blackout includes checking the headlines.”

“I need to see how they’re spinning it.”

With a snap of his wrist, Tripp confiscated my phone. “Lillian isn’t your problem anymore.”

“She’s still a problem.”

“Well, she’s my problem now,” he stated with an odd mix of dismissiveness and finality.

That was the problem with being engaged to a colleague. Well… Technically, Tripp was my boss.

But that was just semantics.

I looked down at the diamond glinting on my finger, willing it to become a wishing star.

I would have wished for a time machine to take me back to the beginning of the week to when I had a job. When I was respected. When I wasn’t being banished to the Lone Star state by my boss turned fiancé.

I settled back in my seat, closed my eyes, and counted to three. “I’m not sure why you think it’s a good idea to hide me away on some ranch. And stop trying to convince me it’s a business development project. We both know I’m being put in timeout.”

Tripp reached for my hand, but I snatched it away. I wasn’t feeling particularly affectionate at the moment.

Swallow a demotion and take the project Rebecca Davis—now Rebecca Griffith—offered, or start looking for other employment.

Tripp called it “crisis management.” I called it an ultimatum.

“It’s for your own good. One-hundred percent of people read the headline, fifty-percent read the body, and no one reads the retraction. Lying low and giving everyone time to forget what happened is preferable to demanding retractions and rebranding,” he said, putting a palatable spin on the situation.

It was complete horseshit.

And I was about to be inundated with a Biblical amount of horseshit. And bullshit.

“I’m not chicken shit. I can fix this.”

“Just because you can fix it, doesn’t mean you should be the one to fix it.” He took a left onto a dirt road. “I have to think about the firm. And if you cared about me and your job, you’d be thinking about what is best for the firm, too. Do you want to be right or win?”

“I can’t win if I’m in the penalty box.”

Tripp scoffed. “A business development project is hardly the penalty box, Cassandra.”

“You’re sending me to Texas.”

“Which is one of the largest state economies in the country.”

“On a cattle ranch,” I hissed, then cut my eyes to the Manolos on my feet. They weren’t made for dirt.Neither was I.

I should have been sitting in my office preparing press releases to quell the rumors around Lillian Monroe’s very public meltdown. I should have been fielding calls and scheduling meetings to spin the story and drum up some public goodwill.

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