The Publicist's Plight (Book I in The Harrison Inc. Series) | ✓

Chapter Forty Seven: Innocence He Used To Know

TRIGGER WARNING: Se*ual assault

**

The most awkward of awkward silences is plaguing the room at this very moment.

Darcy stares at me, and I stare at her. We're both unable to say anything; the lasting effect of Sebastian's wrath renders us speechless.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, Darcy."

She forces a smile. "Don't apologize, Leslie. I should be the one apologizing; I'm the one who lied to you."

I sigh and pace the room. Darcy's eyes, big and curious, follow my movement.

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you couldn't say no to him anyway. Then again, who can say no to 'Sebastian Harrison.'"

I catch myself saying his name like an upset five-year-old. Christ, what have I become?

"Did he threaten to end your job if you didn't lie for him?" I ask her.

Darcy shakes her head. "No, actually. As a matter of fact, he was very nice to me upon coming in here."

"Really?"

"Yup! Of course the last time we talked was that one time he came to visit his father, and that time—I admit—he was very flirtatious and quite disrespectful. But this time? He was really kind. He had nothing but nice words to say about you."

Goosebumps arise on my arms. "What...what did he say about me?"

"Nothing definite. I started off the conversation, going on about how great you are and how I wish to be a publicist like you someday, and he agreed with everything I said. It's so strange—it's like he's a completely different person. But in a good way."

It is then that I realize that I fucked up. I mentally beat myself up as I go over everything I said to him; how I attacked him in a way that seemed so intrusive. What Ingrid told me is enough for me to question the person that he really claims he is, but I still have some ways to go; my journey hasn't ended yet.

I need to apologize.

"Darcy, I'll be right back."

Darcy steps aside from the door, semi confused but confident that she knows what I'm about to do. I go over what I'm going to say to Sebastian in my mind, but in all honesty, my blue print for my words never goes according to plan whenever I speak to him.

"You don't have to tell me about what's in the journal."

"I know sometimes I can be a little too intimidating."

"I didn't mean to yell at you."

"In truth, I'm more of a liar than I like to admit to you."

Okay, maybe not the last part.

I grab the handle of the door and twist it open. But to my surprise, a man—a fairly familiar man—is standing in the door way.

Sebastian.

My throat tightens. My heart beat quickens. And everything I suggested to myself that I would say to him immediately leaves my mind. The anger he had mere minutes before is gone from his face. All that remains is the deep, narrow look in his eyes that he gets when he's thinking hard. Yet when he looks at me for a longer while, his eyes soften to a calm, sad look that contradicts the masculine appearance of himself. There's only one word that comes to my mind:

Sorry.

But apparently the same word comes to his mind, too.

"I'm sorry," we both say in unison.