Chapter 3 The Unseen Bruise

"And it is important you halt this facade before it gets worse"

Jackson, Desirée's manager proclaims with a self-righteous look.

"So the Damsel in Distress trope was the choice," he adds with an air of superiority.

With jaws locked and a rigid stance, he looks at her. There's a weight in his eyes.

Frustration, protectiveness, care. A bit too much care.

"Don't" Patra says dryly, not looking up at him.

"Desi?" he calls

She ignores him.

Instead, she stares ahead with a blank expression.

"You shouldn't have agreed to this Desirée," his voice is low and fierce.

I study her.

Pursed lips, piercing eyes. Palms squeezing the couch beneath her. Of course, she's uneasy coming to terms with the deal she just signed. She must feel like she's lost control.

"It's good you are here," Randall tells him, obviously trying to lighten the room.

"Both parties have just signed and gone through the contract. You can get acquainted with Mr. Deveraux and our responsi.."

"Cut me the bullshit." He hisses.

He clenches his teeth. "I am working on this."

Randall doesn't shake, his expression is sedate.

I almost laughed.

"I imagine this isn't the expected remedy nor am I your dream, Prince Charming" I cut in, observing Desirée.

"But I assure you there's nothing to worry about," my voice is deliberately smooth.

Desirée looks my way, giving me a death glare. I can't help but smile.

Feisty, I love that.

"Desirée," Jackson's voice is tight. "You've made a huge mistake."

Way to show support to your client Jackson.

She exhales, turning wearily, "Jackson," she says curtly.

"I didn't have a choice, you think I wanted to? My career is gone."

"You always have a choice. You've made it. You are gone." he says emphatically.

"I have plans. I'm working on them. This is my job" he grunts, running his hand through his cropped hair.

"This is neither the time nor the place. You were absent" she whispers.

"If you can't fix this or stand by me, then leave."

His face squeezes, turning pink like it's difficult to breathe.

"You don't trust me," he mutters.

Something flickers in his eyes. His body language is filled with shame and...jealousy.

She stays silent.

"Tsk tsk tsk." I shake my head, meeting his glare squarely. Too late.

One would think he was given a death sentence. This hit his ego I'm certain.

As Desirée's Manager, this storm is out of his control. It's not about him though. She's the one in the middle of the scandal- her name, face, reputation. All her.

She's trying to survive.

"Do as you please" he says in a low tone storming off.

The tension in the room is palpable. Desirée's shoulders tense and her expression is torn.

A victim of the public. Disagreement with your manager. What a bad mix.

"Well, that was... great?" Patra comments, brows furrowed and lips tucked in.

She rubs Desirée's hand.

Randall who's been the calmest of the group lets out a breath rubbing his temple.

He has tirelessly managed this agreement, making it advantageous for Desirée.

She has a good team, I admit. Even the pious Jackson. Unfortunately, the public thrives off cancel culture. I've seen the headlines. The vultures, circling, pouncing, till she breaks. They never think public figures are humans with feelings.

#Desiréethemurderer

#Desiréethedeathstrategist

Trending vile hashtags. Accusing her of murder.

The urge to fix this and save her runs deep. It's about power. About control. If I can rebuild her, I can reshape public perception. And then perception of me.

This is a perfect chance. Turn things around. Get her attention. Her respect. I won't let her carefully crafted brand crumble.

"That's it then," Desirée says calmly, with a hint of relief.

"Thank you, Mr. Deveraux, Oscar," she says softly, getting on her feet.

She calls Patra and Randall respectively. Nodding at them.

Our cue to leave.

Her eyes follow me as I stand and extend my palm to her.

She holds my gaze for some moments, like a silent warning, before gripping my palm.

**************************

Desirée walks into the silent luxury of the restaurant at East Atlanta Village.

The waiter shows her to the private table where I'm seated.

I get up and pull out her chair.

I get a whiff of her scent as she sits.

Vanilla and peaches.

I take my seat, smiling as she takes off her scarf and shades.

She grabs my attention. Her hair, the soft waves falling full around her. Long and dark.

Her red lips were beautiful on her brown olive skin. Long lashes frame her eyes.

Her eyes meet mine - dark slits.

"A lovely disguise you have going on."

She gives me a sly look. "You booked the entire place?" She asks, subtly taking in the restaurant.

"I want us to have privacy, Desi. No interruptions this time."

She smiles distastefully. "You're unbelievable."

She shakes her head, still taking in the place with a twinkle in her eyes.

"I've been told" I smirk.

"Why this place?" she queries coolly, betrayed by the flicker in her eyes.

"Because you've been wanting to try it since the opening"

"You enjoy it, we don't get disturbed. You're happy, we're productive. A win-win if you ask me" I explain.

She rolls her eyes snarling.

I did my homework.

She knows how to look good. She's more refreshed today.

She fits right into the Victorian decor, glowing lights, and calm Lofi music.

The floral thin-strap dress with a blend of leaf green, yellow, and pink hues she has on accentuates her shade and figure. She doesn't look like her problems. At all.

She gives me a sour look as she catches my wandering eyes, "Get a grip perv," her expression reads.

I stifle a laugh.

"Okay," I exclaimed, stretching.

I signal the waiter to take our orders.

She clears her throat, "Mr. Deveraux, what do you want?"

I lean forward, watching the staunch expression on her face. She thinks I'm playing a game.

"Control," I state upfront, letting the words settle.

"Of what?" she bites.

"My reputation." I drawl. "Yours too."

"I've enjoyed watching you bloom. I want to build you back up" I tell her sincerely.

The more she falls the more I understand the balance between power and perception.

It's one thing to have power, another thing how you're perceived. I want to control perception.

"I'm not your proj..." Before she could continue, my phone starts vibrating, then hers.

Shit. We've been sighted.

A sudden crash. Shards of glass spray across the floor.

Voices rise from afar in a deafening chant- Liar! Murderer!

A mob.

Desirée's eyes widen and she crouches instinctively. She puts on her scarf and shades.

I get up and grab her hand before she can search for her phone, my eyes narrowing at the scene.

"Get behind me," I bark. "It's a mob, some people saw you come in earlier."

Guards are outside warding them off. It won't take time before they get in.

I led us to the exit, holding Desirée behind me, her body vibrating in fear.

There are already a few mobsters out back. I place Desirée at my front as my security comes to guide our way.

A sea of hands lurch forward, chanting slurs and accusations. Cameras everywhere.

Desirée shrinks in front of me, her breath coming in panic.

"Touch her and lose your arm," I warned as I grabbed someone who tried to hit her.

I hit off as many hands as I can as we escape.

Not on my watch.