razorblade | sebastian vettel ✓

chapter 11 | good intentions

«It came like a postcard. Picture perfect, shiny family, holiday, peppermint candy. But for him it's every day.»

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The constant buzz of a phone disturbed her, and she knew it came from her side by how close the sound was to her. She opened one eye first, trying to adjust to the light, then the other. Cassandra felt the weight of Sebastian's arm wrapped around her waist, and she peered at the embrace before turning her head to look at him deeply asleep. Her lips curved into a smile, he looked so peaceful, and then she remembered the phone. Trying not to move so much, she reached with her arm to grab the thing, and as she stared at the screen, all signs of sleep washed off her.

Hans is calling. He always had to ruin everything, Cassandra thought. She gripped the phone with one hand, and carefully tried to remove Sebastian's arm from her waist. It took a bit of effort but she managed to get free without waking him up. When she left the bed, he nudged himself into her spot, the buzzing of the phone stopped her from staring at him for too long.

Cassandra tiptoed her way out of his room, quietly closing the door behind her. She made her way downstairs in record time, despite almost stumbling on the last step. It wasn't her house, nobody could blame her.

"Hello?" She cleared her throat after hearing her own voice. It sounded raspy. What happened to not disturbing people on their days off?

"Cassandra." Hans sounded just as miserable as he always did. It was depressing. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, I can hear you. Sorry, I just woke up." She chewed on her lip and looked around. Fuck. Everything looked so beautiful. "Why are you calling me?" It sounded less impolite in her head. "I mean," Her face turned into a grimace. "You know what I mean. It's early on the weekend."

Not that she imagined Hans had a lot of fun in his personal life. Cassandra could perfectly believe he was put on this earth to make it difficult for other people. People like her for example.

"Cassandra." He repeated her name, this time using his usual miserable tone. She could even picture his face of despair. "I read your corrections for the first draft." A pause. He always did that. It was exasperating. Cassandra nervously moved to where the kitchen was, leaning against the counter. "I have a few words."

Of course, you do, you cunt, she thought. "I edited and added what you wanted. I thought it was fine."

"Yeah you did, but it's still..." Hans let the words hang in the air. Cassandra frowned. "Do you remember the piece you wrote for the French singer? Last year?" Oh no.

No, no, no. Her expression fell. "Yeah, I can recall." She said with hesitation, because she knew Hans and where the conversation was going.

The article about the French singer wasn't her proudest career moment. The guy had willingly talked to her hoping she would write an amazing piece about him and his career, and all she did was manipulate some of the information to make it seem more interesting. As per Hans' request though. Cassandra had to block the poor singer from everything because he kept threatening to sue her until he got tired and dropped the horrible article she had written about him. It was now just another forgotten piece in her collection.

"Well, I need you to do that with this one." Hans simply said. Like the maths were obvious.

"No." Cassandra shook her head, even knowing the man couldn't see her and her stern expression.

There was a heavy sigh from the other side of the line, and she could imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. All unhappy and everything. The image was painted perfectly inside her brain because she had been witness to it on far too many occasions. Hans wasn't one to take no for an answer, that's why everyone at the magazine always did whatever he wanted them to do. No matter the public repercussions of it all.