ACE
The press conference room feels like a feeding frenzy waiting to happen. Reporters circle the long table with their beady eyes, scanning the empty seat where I'm supposed to answer their intrusive questions. They're hungry for any juicy gossip they can sink their teeth into with their microphones and recorders steady in their hands. Every rustle of paper, every cough from the back of the room, and every shift in weight show they're becoming impatient.
Let them wait. What else did they have going on, anyway? Turning my life into clickbait headlines seems to be their sole purpose. I bet their own lives aren't thrillers, so they crave the chaos surrounding my name like a celebrity. I also wouldn't say I'm a celebrity. Sure, I've got the whole heir-to-a-hotel-empire thing going on, millions of followers, and some good looks. But the media? They've turned it all into some Hollywood drama, making me a playboy prince in their trashy narrative.
Luckily, our PR team had convinced the publication company to hold off on releasing the photos for now. They weren't keen on agreeing to our terms for handing them over. After all, that paparazzo was able to get a clear shot of Elle's face. I wouldn't say lucky is the right word since my dad would've thrown those pictures to the wolves without a second thought. After our tense talk about the situation with Elle, we reached a shaky truce. I sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight, but this whole thing just keeps spiraling further and further out of control. The women refuse to tell the truth, even after the lawyer, Mr. Caldwell, sent them a strongly worded letter of demand.
I'm not sure why my dad needs Mr. Caldwell to work with him, considering he's got a solid team that has backed him up for years. They must be getting along, and maybe he might fire his current team in favor of Mr. Caldwell. Dad didn't mention that he was taking on my possible cases. Our talk about the fake dating situation ended when Dad picked up a call from Mr. Caldwell, and they nearly spoke for an hour. I'm not sure what it was about, but I heard my dad say something about Richard's Construction & Design company—I could care less about lawyer-related stuff when it comes to other people.
Maybe if I play along with this charade with Elle, these women will have the heart to back down and own up to their lies. Too bad, it was all I had for now. They're probably reveling in the attention by using my name, even if it meant negative exposure and comments. The difference is that Elle hasn't done anything that these women have... yet. But trust me, I wasn't naive enough to believe she wasn't playing her own game. If so, she's a master manipulator.
Dad's expression turns grim as he steps up next to me with the PR manager, Nathan Bennett, flanking him. The guy is slick, influential, and a master manipulator of public opinion. I'll admit, he knows what he's doing—the guy can sway opinions faster than my three-year-old sister, Giselle, on a sugar high. But even with all his smooth talk, there's only so much he can do before I decide to tell the actual truth.
In the end, people need to mind their own business, whether I'm in the spotlight or not. Why does it seem like I have to explain myself with every little thing I do? I can't even grab a bite to eat with the guys without someone trying to stir up trouble behind my back. At least that actress had the brains to take my advice and tell the truth. I didn't even feel bad when everyone called her a stalker. How else would she know about me going to the hotel party or the pizza joint?
Nathan clears his throat, launching into what I already know is a pep talk. "Alright, Ace," he begins, "this sucks, but sometimes the easy way out is the best. Just come clean. Trust me, people will see reason."
I try not to scowl when he pats me on the shoulder, offering hollow reassurance everyone seems to think I need. Easy for him to say. I'm way less optimistic about this as I catch my dad's eye, and he gives a curt, almost imperceptible nod, a silent command to confront the crowd. I step out of the back room and onto the stage, and a barrage of flashes assaults my eyes as the cameras click away. The microphone points right at my chest like a judgement hammer.
Before I can even settle in the chair, the questions start immediately.
"Ace, are you dating that actress, Lila Sinclair?" One reporter barks.
"Hold on, hold on!" Another reporter cuts in, trying to shove a microphone as close to me as possible. "We have sources claiming you're seeing a social media influencer, Bianca Flores! True or false?"
"Ace, is that dancer really pregnant with your baby? Are you ready to be a father at such a young age? Are you going to own up?" A third asks, with a voice dripping with insinuation.
My jaw clenches. I answer each question with a flat, resolute "no," but the skepticism in the room is thicker than the makeup caking the third reporter's face. Dad and Nathan exchange a look of frustration with my lack of effort in my answers. I see Nathan pinching the bridge of his nose, his shoulders slumping, as my dad stands stiffly beside him.
I hate this.
I'm telling them the truth, yet even with a straight answer from me, people are still skeptical. Seriously, do I need an angel to swoop down from heaven, wings and all, just to get people to believe I'm innocent?
A reporter, with a determined gleam in her eyes, holds a ballpoint pen hovering over a fresh page of a notebook. Her off-black curly hair is pulled back into a high ponytail that strains her scalp, and square glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose. She doesn't look like she belongs here with how tiny she is sitting between two large men. However, she doesn't look phased.
"Mr. Ace Daniels, what do you think about all of these rumors surrounding you and those women?" The female reporter asks.
"There's nothing to these rumors." I begin, keeping my tone steady. "The truth is, people want to write baseless stories, even if they're one-sided. I know you guys are good at your jobs and would've gotten physical proof if these rumors were true."
I lean forward slightly. "These lies aren't just affecting me. They're hurting the people who actually care about me—the ones who know the truth. It's getting old."
My gaze darts around the room before going back to the female reporter, silently hoping she'll be the one to understand where I'm coming from. That's until another reporter, a man with a combover and shirt buttons straining against his big belly, pipes up. "But Mr. Daniels." He leans forward with an insincere smile and an oily voice. "Isn't it true that you've cultivated a bit of a playboy image? Maybe these rumors aren't entirely out of thin air. Did you lead these girls on to the point where they said what they said? A lot of things can happen behind closed doors; us reporters need to sleep too."
The room shrinks, dropping several degrees in temperature. Murmurs rise as people glance at each other, divided about what he said. My knuckles turn white while gripping the arm rests under the table, and my anger pulses beneath my skin. And here it is again, the industry gobbling up every bit of my personal life, twisting every interaction into something salacious.
Mr. Combover's smile widens, revealing a set of teeth that look like chiclets gone rogue. If I could, I'd punch them out right now; let that be the next scoop. "I'm just reporting the questions people might be asking."
"Mr. Lehmann, right?" The female reporter leans forward, her gaze laser-focused on Mr. Combover.
"That's right." He puffs out his chest, probably enjoying the shift of attention.
"Mr. Lehmann. Perhaps you haven't bothered to do your due diligence. These rumors are based solely on the accusations of these women. Unless you have concrete evidence to support your claims, like Mr. Daniels kissing someone or confirming a dinner date, implying that he's guilty is not only irresponsible journalism. It's slander." She pauses, her gaze sweeping the room. "Mind you, he's still in high school."
This woman emphasized my words and more by directly attacking Mr. Lehmann. The cocky s.o.b. sinks back into his chair and fiddles with his tie like he forgot how to breathe. It's pretty satisfying to watch that smug smile disappear from his face.
Then suddenly, the room buzzes with a different kind of energy as people take out their phones, their faces lighting up with their screens. My gaze lands on my dad and Nathan, who look bewildered, completely out of the loop. Just as I consider getting up and bolting, a reporter with a hungry glint in his eyes shoots his arm up from the back. "There's been an anonymous tip about you and a female student looking cozy," he proclaims, waving his phone for emphasis. "Is this girl your actual girlfriend? Are you trying to protect her?"
Confusion morphs into a cold dread. How? That picture wasn't supposed to go out for another couple days. That's what we agreed on with the publication company. We had a whole strategy in place with them to control what was going to happen. Now, thanks to a leak, this press conference is far from over.
From the back of the room, the press corps starts to part like the Red Sea, their gaze fixed on a figure pushing through the aisle. Collective gasps ripple through the crowd as people start to point out that it's the girl from the photos. All eyes are on her and one by one, cameras flash left and right. My eyes strain against the harsh glare of the lights, struggling to make out the details.
Elle comes into view, standing at the bottom of the platform. A hesitant smile plays on her lips, faltering ever so slightly when she meets my unwavering stare. Her eyes have this little flicker of nervousness—just a split second thing, but enough to notice since she's the only one I'm paying attention to.
The lights intensify, highlighting every detail of her appearance. She looks polished in a beige blazer and skirt set, far from the green dress the other day that burned itself into my memory. Every time I think of her or her name is brought up, it's that damn image of her in that green dress. I remember how my eyes instantly betrayed me, but my brain knew she was probably there to snake her way into my life some more. Is she trying to get her revenge on Cassie after all that she's done to her? I still think it's highly unlikely she's doing all of this just to help me.
Is she going to be that angel that everyone needs to hear from, or could this thing blow up? She better have come prepared for the press conference.