Page 116 of Taste of Addiction

I follow Owen into the main part of the penthouse and down the hallway. With the turn of a key, we are inside Graham’s office, and it feels weird being in his space without him being here.

“There’s a cable lying beside the printer, just place it into your USB port, turn the printer on, and go to town.”

“Seems easy enough,” I mutter, moving over to where he points.

“Just let me know when you’re done and I can lock everything back up.”

“Sounds good.”

I watch Owen retreat and am left to my own devices.

I hook up my device, turn on the printer, and set it to print two copies—just because I refuse to take any chances. My curiosity is at full volume, and it is hard to be in Graham’s space and not want to snoop. But I resist. If I want to move forward with Graham, I have to respect his privacy.

With the printed articles in hand, I head on out to the living room and find Owen relaxing on a chair.

“I’m all done,” I say.

He nods and stands up from the chair to lock Graham’s office back up. I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning up my workspace and head back up to the bedroom to freshen up before my therapy session.

Graham is prompt, as usual, and meets me and Parker in the parking garage. I enter the front seat and give him a kiss, waving goodbye to one of my many bodyguards who stays back.

“Not walking today?” I ask softly.

He stares intently at me. “No. Not today.”

“I can handle reporters. I’m sick and tired of the media world I am trying to enter keeping me from having my own voice.”

“These people are not looking to speak any truth, Angie. They are looking to destroy your reputation and attack you. They have some narrative to follow. Trust me, I’ve tried to make it financially worth it to them to shut up.”

“Let them spew their hate.”

“Not while I sit and watch.”

He pulls out of the parking garage and barely dodges the camera people on the street. Lovely…they know where I live too. Nothing should surprise me anymore and yet it does.

“Iama drug addict. I may be in my recovery phase. But I am one, nonetheless.”

“I do not want you to have any setbacks.”

“I don’t want that either, Graham. I have so much on my mind, trust me. Now would be the perfect time for me to have a relapse. But I have my head looking ahead. What is in the past needs to stay there. I have a future that I want to enjoy.”

His hand squeezes mine, which is nervously pulling imaginary fuzz balls off my jacket. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

I shift my weight in my seat to face toward him. “Your support means everything. I got into this mess on my own, but am so thankful I have you to lean on through my journey out.”

“I’m always on your side.”

His words and actions match. This is how I know I can trust him.

It takes minutes to park, enter the elevator, and sign in. Graham sits beside me, and I use my wait time to journal in the little book Dr. Saber gave to me. I have entries for every day—some even double or triple depending on my mood.

My phone buzzes with an incoming voice message. I hold it up to my ear and listen as Beth, Dr. Williams’s work-study student, informs me that I am to send my final article electronically for review. The professor will be out of the office all of next week and requests my document prior to Monday, if possible.

Saved on my new email account, I open up my file and submit it directly to Dr. Williams’s account. There. It is all done. I have nothing left to do but wait.

The nurse calls me back, draws my blood, tests my urine, and calls for Dr. Lucian after the results are ready.

“Hello Angie,” she says, glancing at my chart. “How have you been feeling?”

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