Page 55 of Point of Contention
Right? Yeah. Sure.
Whatever.
Fake it ‘til you make it.
“Rylan Blake?”
I lifted my head and located a man across the large lobby, ignoring the way all heads swiveled toward me. Announcing my name like that confirmed that I was, in fact,that girlthey all thought I was.
Cool cool. This is fine.
Meeting the man’s gaze, I strode forward. When I reached him, he stepped aside to allow me to walk through the door.
“Welcome to Hilltop Publishing, Ms. Blake.”
“Thank you.”
“Just up here to the left.”
I followed him to a small meeting room and stepped inside.
“Please have a seat. Mr. King will be with you in a moment.”
I frowned. “Mr. King? As in…?”
He gave me a tight smile and cocked one eyebrow condescendingly. “Yes, hon.ThatMr. King. Guess it pays to be famous.” He paused to let that sink in, then infused his voice with saccharine sweetness as he said, “May I get you anything while you wait?”
My mouth was suddenly dry as a desert floor. “Water, please.”
He inclined his head and left the room, closing the door behind him.
“Shit.” I sat down heavily.
Marcellus King wasn’t just anyone; he was the head of the entire editing department for Hilltop.
I’d applied for an entry-levelreceptionistposition.
There was no logical reason he’d want to meet with me, unless—
With a deep breath, I stood, shaking my head as tears sprang to my eyes.
Unless he really was only interested in me because of with whom I’d recently been publicly linked.
The door opened and a handsome Black man strode inside, his eyes an amber shade of brown and his smile bright as he greeted me. “Ms. Blake, welcome to Hilltop. I’ve heard so much about you.” He extended his hand toward me but I just blinked as I stared at it.
Of coursehe had heard so much about me—who hadn’t?
He dropped his hand when it became clear I wasn’t going to shake it. Instead, I tried to shake the sense of unease itching at the back of my neck.
“Your employer speaks highly of you.”
“My employer…?”Oh. The words trailed off as my stomach sank and it all clicked into place.
Cabot had called in a favor. Or, maybe Mr. King had reached out to Cabot, but the details didn’t matter. They’d spoken about me, which meant it was no accident that the head of editorial was interviewing me for a receptionist gig instead of someone from human resources.
Which also meant that any job offer I might receive here wasn’tearned. If I stayed, I was no better than the things people were saying about me—working my way into publishing not by merit, but by who I’d fucked.
Embarrassment warred with anger inside of me, spreading heat up my neck and into my cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mr. King,” I said, finally looking back up at him. “I have to go.”
