Don't Grow Partial | Eminem

Skeletons

Christina sat across from Irving, slumped in the plush leather chair in his office. She absentmindedly flicked her nails against the armrest, still thinking about two nights ago.

The rich aroma of leather and ink pervaded the air, but Christina barely noticed. She had become accustomed to it.

Irving, her manager, was casually leaned back in his chair, a fountain pen resting between his fingers, eyes scanning some paperwork on his desk.

His suit was well-tailored and immaculate, though not without its quirks: the tie was perpetually askew, and his pressed trousers were always paired with some unappealing Christmas socks.

Despite this, there was a sense of calm and collectedness about him, as if he was always two steps ahead, even when he seemed unprepared and nervous.

She envied that.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her voice filled with curiosity, maybe a little awe. "How the hell did you do it?"

Irving glanced up from his papers, brow arched as if he wasn't sure what she was asking. But then a smirk played on his lips. "Do what?"

"Get Eminem to back off," Christina clarified. "You know, Paul? Like, how?"

Irving placed the pen carefully into a gold-plated penholder, its surface gleaming under the office lights.

Irving chortled. "Chris, Christina, I didn't go to business school for nothing." He tapped his temple. "You just have to know who to talk to. Paul might seem like a tough nut, but he's got weak spots. Every man does."

She paused for a second, intrigued. "So, what? You blackmailed him or something?"

Irving waved a hand dismissively. "Nothing so crass. It's not blackmail if it's just... persuasion."

Christina quirked her left eyebrow up. "Persuasion? Right."

Irving shrugged, the fidgeting returning. "Let's just say Paul's got a few skeletons. Financial discrepancies, some shady dealings with past clients — nothing public, but enough to make them uncomfortable. All I had to do was remind him that I knew. And that I could make it... public."

Her eyes widened.

She sighed, leaning back again, feeling a weight lift off her chest. "Yeah. I guess I owe you one, huh?"

He stacked a pile of papers against his desk and said, "You don't owe me anything. Just keep doing what you're doing, and we'll be just fine."

Irving stood up to toss a crumpled piece of paper into the trash can but muttered in frustration when he saw it was already overflowing. Without much thought, he shoved the paper down into the already packed bin, creating a bit more room.

Christina rolled her eyes. Typical, she thought. The rubbish bin was always full every time she came here.

"Eminem must be pissed, though," she began, running a hand through her hair. "I could see it in his face. He looked like he wanted to strangle me."

"What's he gonna do? Write another song?" Irving shook his head. "Let him. It's not like he's got anything new to say."

"Seriously though," Christina said, shaking her head. "And to think, he tried to act all tough. 'I'll lay off you if you lay off me,'" she mimicked his voice, rolling her eyes. "Like I'm the one starting shit."

Irving scoffed. "I'm surprised anyone takes him seriously. But as long as he's out of your hair, I'd consider that a win."

"Mm," she affirmed. "I suppose so."

Though, it didn't really feel like a win. She was pretty sure Eminem would find a way to retaliate. He always did.

Christina stood up, smoothing her clothes as she prepared to leave. As she walked to the door, Irving's voice stopped her.

"Oh, and Chris?"

She turned back to look at him. "Yeah?"

Irving's smile turned cold, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Just remember: always keep your enemies closer and your so-called friends even closer. Trust is a rare commodity."

Christina paused, uncertainty creeping in. "Is there something I should know?"

Irving's expression remained inscrutable. "I don't know your friends personally, but it wouldn't hurt to be cautious."

With that, Christina left his office, a chill creeping over her.