Page 83 of Savage Suit
“And you’re a fucking bitch.” Hoping I achieved her deceptive manner, I sailed past her.
Reid stood in front of the lectern, a small microphone in hand. “A hot mic is your worst enemy,” he told me, clipping it to the lapel of my dress. “Take care,” he warned me.
I nodded.
“A small tidbit to keep in mind,” he said. “Ingrid’s husband applied for a job in the company. He didn’t get it and now works for Sauncier.” He smiled and nodded to someone behind me. “You’re live.”
His voice carried over the speakers as he returned to his place among the executives standing on each side of me.
At some point, Ingrid had stopped talking, or I had stopped caring and tuned her out.
“Let me address your first statement.”
“You remember what I said? Shocking. Everyone I interviewed, all credible contacts, said the women on staff are little more than airheads. Either here through nepotism or because they’ve used their bodies and continue to do so.”
As much as I disliked Megan, I didn’t doubt her education or her skills. More so because she worked here.
Ingrid fell silent.
“Are you ready to hear my response?”
“You will not change my mind, Ryan.” She glanced at me from head to toe. “You are a cookie-cutter example of the type of women hired. You don’t come close to a professional, dressing in such a suggestive manner. Your dress is so short most of your thighs are exposed.”
I glanced down. “I like my legs. They are beautiful if I say so myself.”
She glared at me. “You’re pathetic. It doesn’t matter what spiel you’ve been groomed to spout. Not to me or anyone else.”
Her insults were best ignored.Wehad become the story. “You’re a freelance journalist, are you not?”
“I am,” she said, reeking of superiority. “I am my own boss, set my own hours, and choose my own stories. I am any woman’s inspiration.”
“Or a cautionary tale,” I responded, wondering if she’d written the piece for her own revenge or at her husband’s urging.
“I beg your pardon?” By her indignation, she genuinely believed herself above any woman who worked for Noah.
“Pardon not granted. You’ve become an inspiration because of a story you wrote assassinating a man’s character.”
“Character? How much extra were you paid to feed that line to us?”
“My opinions are not for sale, Ms. Warrington,” I said evenly. “While you think of me as a dilettante, I’m neither an amateur nor unskilled. I earned my degree through hard work and dedication. My sister and I—” I nodded to Quinn— “lost our parents at a crucial time in our lives. An older sister was a newlywed, an older brother was in college, and I was in high school. Quinn—” Another nod in her direction— “was thirteen and our little brother was eleven.”
Some photographers homed in on Quinn, momentarily abandoning my showdown with Ingrid Warrington.
“My parents taught us the value of an education and instilled in us a drive to succeed. For you to reduce their lessons to what’s between my legs is insulting and disgusting.”
“Quite the sob story,” she mocked.
“I consider it a success story.”
“Spin it how you want, Ryan. Why else would you blab your poor little background if not to garner sympathy?”
“Not for sympathy. As encouragement. Do you know whyIdon’t thinkmystory is a ‘sob story’?” I used air quotations.
“This should be good. Your proselytizing is more annoying than anything else. But please, tell us before we perish from curiosity.”
While she spoke with all the melodrama of a D-list actress, I kept my voice even. “We kept it in the family and worked to be where we are. We held on to what our parents taught us and prevailed. Why? Because we had a sound foundation because of our mother’s and father’s love and devotion to each other and to us. The five of us triumphed after their deathsin spite ofour situation. Not because of it. We didn’t broadcast our grief and pain, seeking monetary gain.”
“I see. In other words, when money is raised for children who’ve lost their parents, families devastated by unforeseen tragedies, they are using trauma for profit.”
