Something is definitely wrong.
“Why don’t we have you join us over here,” Dale calls, gesturing to a seat empty by one of the other HR reps. I think her name might be Judy.
“The suspense is killing me here,” I admit, dropping into the leather swivel chair. I set my tablet and coffee down on the table. Now I’m seated directly across from Troy. He balances his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin.
“We were just discussing the ethos of Powell, Fawcett, and Hughes,” Dale says as soon as I’m seated. “We pride ourselves here at PFH that we’re a company of integrity. We may play in the corporate arena, but we’re a family business first, family values. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Fawcett?”
I glance across the table. Grant Fawcett III is seated next to Troy. He’s the second highest ranking partner at the firm after Troy’s mother. It was his grandfather who started the company with Bea’s father. Beatrice Owens （neé Powell） is the reigning queen of PFH.
“Mhmm,” says Grant with a slow nod. “That’s what my grandfather wanted. That’s what we’re all striving to build here.”
“And part of keeping family values at the center of our business is adhering to a strict code of ethics,” Dale goes on. “We all sign contracts that include a morality clause.” Slowly, Dale turns to me. “Tess, did you know you signed a contract that included a morality clause?”
“Yeah. It was pretty boiler plate,” I reply.
“It’s a bit more than that,” Dale says, adjusting his glasses. “As one of the client-facing junior partners at our firm, your conduct must be seen as beyond reproach at all times,” he goes on.
I go stiff in my chair. “I’m sorry—has there been a complaint I don’t know about?” I glance around the table. “Did one of my clients have a bad experience? Because I swear—”
“This isn’t about how you handle clients, Tess,” Grant explains. “This is about how you conduct yourself as a junior partner. We’re under a microscope here. And we can’t allow any conduct unbecoming of a PFH partner. That comes straight from Bea.”
My heart squeezes tight in my chest. “Bea knows about this?” I glance sharply over at Troy. “Well, can I please know too?”
Slowly, Dale nods. “Show her.”
The woman to my right places a hand on the manilla folder resting in front of her. Slowly, she slides it my way.
I snatch it up and flip it open. My eyes go wide as I take in the image staring up at me. It’s printed on glossy photo paper, but the image is grainy, like a blowup from an iPhone. My heart sinks straight out of my chest. It’s a picture of me dancing with Ryan Langley at Rachel’s wedding last week.
“What is this?”
“You tell us,” Grant replies.
Next to him, Troy sits in silence with all the confidence of a judge holding court.
“Troy, what is this?” I say, holding up the photo. My heart is pounding.
There are more under it. I look through them quickly. Four photos of me dancing with Ryan. Each one shows us looking cozier than the last. We’re gazing at each other with hearts in our eyes and smiles on our faces. In the last one, his face is turned into my hand as he kisses my palm. I can almost feel the warmth of that kiss.
It’s chilled by the Arctic temperature in this room.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” I say, setting the photos down.
“What it looks like is you giving ‘fuck me’ eyes to another man,” Troy counters.
“Ryan is a friend,” I reply. “Nothing happened. We just danced. And this was a private event, by the way.”
“Which just made these photos all the more enticing for the press to get their hands on,” says Dale. “These were posted online a few hours ago with about two dozen other photos from Rachel Price’s wedding. They’re running on every news site with a string of stories, to include a few headlines about you and your new beau.”
The woman next to me slides me the other folder.
I flip it open and see a stack of papers with trashy news headlines—celebrity gossip, sports news, Hollywood inside scoops. There are pictures of Rachel with her guys, several of Rachel’s dad and his band, the Rays rubbing shoulders with the A-list celebrities. And then there are the photos of me dancing with Ryan Langley. One of the headlines calls me his newest lady love. Another calls me his girlfriend.
“This is a mistake,” I say. “I can request a retraction or a correction—”