Page 108 of The Lair

For years, I’d been terrified of the internet. It’s a wild thing, caring about what strangers think of me. I couldn’t, and still can’t, understand how people I don’t know, people who don’t knowme, have such strong opinions about my private life. A private life I never agreed to showcase in the first place.

I’d never felt in control of my own narrative, not as a child and not as an adult. In a way, by looking myself up, I regained scraps of that agency. And even though it was uncomfortable, I pushed through for myself, because it was about damn time I faced my fears.

I saw dozens of differing viewpoints—that I was an attention seeker, that I was a victim, that I should speak out, that I should be allowed to remain silent—and it only proved my long-standing theory that the human brain isn’t built to take in so many opinions at once. That we shouldn’t have to.

“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver says, bringing me back to the present.

I let out a shaky breath as I take in the tall building we’re parked next to. I can’t see much other than the buzz of people coming in and out the main entrance of the TV studio, busy workers with phones pressed to their ears and important places to be.

“Ma’am?”

My cheeks heat up. “Yes, sorry.”

I rush out of the car and get my suitcase and backpack. Tom said the production company would pay for my hotel here, but apparently, I don’t have time for a stop and a quick shower. All this urgency isn’t helping my already-panicked state.

Shortly after I tell the receptionist my name, Tom appears down the hallway wearing a set of headphones and holding a clipboard. His smile is tight-lipped but warm.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were almost here,” he says easily. “How was your flight?”

“Good.” I don’t want to be so awkward, but I’m so nervous I might throw up.

He picks up on it. “Follow me. George is dying to meet you.”

The next hour flies by. I’m thankfully allowed to take a quick shower in one of the dressing rooms. Then a man approachesme with a change of clothes—a plain white shirt and dark jeans. Once I’m dressed, someone else ushers me to a makeup chair, where one lady works her magic to make me look less zombie-like, while another straightens my hair. There’s a tray with snacks and water there, too, so I eat a granola bar and drink a whole bottle of water before I’m led somewhere else.

Every corner I turn, I spot someone’s stressed face. If this is what it’s like to work in the entertainment industry, it looks like a nightmare.

Shortly after they tell me I’m ready, Tom somehow finds me again. It feels like he’s everywhere at once.

“I apologize for the chaos,” he says as if he could read my mind. We start down a well-lit hallway. “I can only imagine how overwhelmed you must be by all this.”

“A little.” There’s no point in hiding it. “Is it always this hectic?”

He throws me a smirk over his shoulder, power walking way faster than me. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

I gulp, then do it again when we enter a studio, arealTV studio, and I spot him—George Eden in the flesh.

I don’t know why, but my first thought as he shakes my hand is that he’s shorter than he looks on TV. His brown hair looks lighter in person too. My nerves must be making me delirious.

“Allison.” His smile is genuine. “I’m George Eden. Thank you so much for coming today. I’m happy to hear you’ve changed your mind about the interview.”

The percentage of people who have never heard of George Eden and his provocative journalism in this country is probably very low, so the fact that he introduced himself calms me down a little. I have no idea why. Maybe it’s because I expected to find a demanding, cutthroat man despite Tom’s reassurance that he’s everything but.

“I…” I start, but my throat closes up. The weight of the last twenty-four hours, paired with what I’m about to do, sinks in.

George and Tom exchange a knowing glance before George says, “Everything’s happening so fast, and I understand how you must be feeling. My team and I want to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. We’re going to sit down for our interview, just you and me, whenever you’re ready. I’ll ask some questions, and you can answer however you want. If you feel uncomfortable or overwhelmed at any point, we’ll stop.”

I nod along, making a superhuman effort to take in what he’s saying. My brain is overstimulated in the worst possible way.

“Thank you,” I finally say. At least my voice isn’t shaking. “This isn’t… I mean, this isn’t ideal for me, but it isn’t because of you. Your team has been great so far, and I…”

Jeez, Allie. Forgot your English?

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous.”

George gives me an understanding smile. “That’s all right. Just remember we’re here to cater to your every need. Whenever you’re ready, we can start.”

I’ve seen George Eden’s famous interviews before. They’re always engaging, covering controversial and lesser-talked-about topics that soon become relevant conversations people have in the line in coffee shops. He’s an industry pioneer, and whatever subject he touches becomes gold, which doesn’t ease my nerves.

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