I was ready.
No one else was.
On my way back from visiting Frank, speculation rose in the media about who had been in the SUV with me. Most of them were guessing right. They referred to her as Frank’s daughter or the victim of the “Whitfield Downfall.” She was moving to the forefront of the media frenzy.
I’d hired a PR team to take Isabel’s place, but none of them could stop the snowball from growing. I knew that, and so did they. We’d have to let time pass and wait for another story to catch their eye.
I called Aubrey over and over. I texted her. I even left voice mails which I wasn’t inclined to do most of the time.
She didn’t answer and didn’t return my calls.
I called my brother but couldn't persuade him into getting involved, and then I even called Roman. That man answered his phone enough that I knew he was purposely ignoring me, too.
The idea of him consoling her or even being there when she was upset with me had me fidgeting like a jealous fucking lunatic as my driver sped toward home.
I couldn't shake the itch to see her. I needed this shit ironed out.
The infuriating woman wanted me to come there too. She had to. If she didn’t, she would have picked up or called me back or even texted me.
So, I rerouted and headed in that direction, knowing the time I spent on her cut into the preparation I had to do for my launch this weekend. My stock had to skyrocket with this launch for everything else to work. Yet, my mind couldn’t work through preparing for anything if she kept fucking ignoring me.
When I got to her place, I noticed Roman's truck in the parking lot. I also noticed a couple of media outlets camped out, ready to catch a glimpse of us.
I slammed the door after telling my driver I'd call when I needed him.
As the cameramen swarmed me, I met them all with glowering eyes. “You're on private property. I promise my team will disassemble your career if you don't get the fuck out of here."
Half of them dispersed and the other half I plowed through to get into Aubrey’s apartment.
I banged on her door. "It's too late for this shit, Whitfield. Open the damn door."
This felt like déjà vu, and if I met Roman in the hall, I’d probably lose it.
The locks clicked quick enough, and she appeared in her small shorts and tank top.
“That’s not an outfit to wear when you answer your door.”
“You were screaming through it, genius. I knew it was you. Who’s to say your outfit is one to wear when you’re banging on someone’s door?”
I stepped forward and she opened the door to let me pass. I caught how quickly she sidestepped me though. I saw the distrust and distance that was there again.
I sighed. At least we weren’t going to have this conversation in the hallway.
“You’re ignoring my calls, Whitfield.”
“I figured you didn’t want to talk since you sent me on my way this afternoon.”
Shaking her wouldn’t do me any good but the woman made me want to. “I told him I would be there.”
Her green eyes widened. “I don’t care what you told him!”
I tried to step toward her again but she retreated around the island and into the kitchen. “We can’t keep having this fight.”
“And you can’t keep visiting him without telling me what the fuck is going on,” she practically screamed.
“I tried to start that conversation today!” My mouth snapped shut as I realized I’d raised my voice too.
“I don’t want to have that conversation with you. You know who I want it from? I want it from him. I want him to explain everything. Then, I want to tell him his explanation isn’t good enough. Then, I’ll come home and you can do the same damn thing he did. Try to explain yourself.”