“So . . . what I’m saying here”—I point to the whiteboard—“is that the projection is way off.”
Ten sets of eyes watch from around the board table.
My phone vibrates on the table, and I glance at the name. Is it her?
Tristan.
I ignore it.
I keep presenting. “So over on this spreadsheet—” I hold the remote to the screen and flick through to where I need to be.
My phone vibrates on the table, and once again, I glance at the name. Is this her?
Elliot.
Fuck off. Why are they all calling me this morning? I’m busy here.
I keep talking, and five minutes later my phone vibrates again.
Jameson.
Huh?
For fuck’s sake, leave me alone, fuckers. I’m in the middle of something very important.
“If you go to recent years’ trends—” I point to a graph, and there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Elouise comes in. “Christopher, Jameson is on line two. He said it’s urgent.”
I frown.
“He said to take it in your office.”
“Hmm.” I look around at the table. “My apologies. I have to take this. Let’s have a ten-minute tea break.”
“Sure,” they all reply.
I walk out and storm down the hall. Fucking hell . . . I do not have time for this shit.
“Yes,” I answer.
“Page four, Ferrara News,” Jameson’s voice growls.
“What?”
I open up the newspaper on my computer and drop into my seat.
A half-page photograph comes up.
Christopher Miles Breaks Miss Ordinary’s Heart for a Supermodel.
There’s a huge photo of Hayden in the park. I’m sitting beside her on the park bench. She’s crying, and I look like I’m angry. Then beside it is a photo of me and Amira Conrad, a model who is dating one of my friends. I ran into her at the bar in a restaurant at lunch the other day. The photo is of me with my arm around her, snapped at precisely the moment I kissed her hello. I’m smiling at her, and she’s smiling back at me. We look totally in love.
My blood boils.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper angrily.
“Any news from Hayden?” Jameson asks.
“Nope.”
“This really doesn’t look good.”
“You think?” I explode. “Goodbye.” I hang up and scroll through my phone. My finger hovers over Hayden’s name . . . she might not even see the paper . . . and then . . . my heart sinks.
It doesn’t matter even if she does.
We’re over.
She doesn’t want me . . . or my life.
One day I will have to move on, and so will she. My heart twists at the thought of some country bumpkin being able to give her the life that I couldn’t . . . as much as I wish I could have.
I imagine her living on a large farm with heaps of wild and carefree kids and being happy, and I smile sadly. I want that for her. I want her to have everything she ever wanted. She deserves to be happy.
I put my phone back down.
My gaze goes to the window and London buzzing way down below. She’s a million depressing miles away.