Broken Submission

Bullshit

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"Mrs. Scott, what can you tell us about the death of Garret Xavier—"

"Is it true that you were kidnapped and held hostage for over a week—"

"Do you consider the death of Garret Xavier, at your hands, to be murder?"

Amelia reeled under the onslaught of voices, none of whom were the least bit shaken by her exclamation. Her hands shook, the tension overflowing until her chest felt like it was collapsing. Murder. They thought she'd murdered him. And she had. She'd taken ahold of cold metal and driven it into his skull--"

"Back the hell off," Freya barked, pulling Amelia back from the doorway.

The reporters flinched back as Derek's intimidating form appeared. "Get the fuck off my property," he seethed, a truly frightening expression on his face.

But it took more than a scowl to scare a reporter away from a story. "Were you the first on the scene?"

"Are you the current boyfriend?"

"Was it your affair with Mrs. Scott that caused the death of Garret Xavier?"

Fury blinded him to sense. "That man is dead because he was a pig who preyed on an innocent woman. He deserved everything he got and more--"

"For the love of god, shut up." A female reporter forced her way through the crowd, grabbing his arm. "Are you trying to send your girlfriend to jail?"

He frowned, trying to place her face. "Sherry?"

"Sharon," she snapped. "Now let me in and close the door before you make a complete mess of things."

Too stunned to do anything else, he let her in, the other reporters complaining and bargaining. Brow furrowed, he stared at her in the sudden quiet of the closed room. "What are you doing here?"

                                       • • •

Freya pulled Amelia as far from the ruckus as possible, going so far as the close them both in the bedroom. "Sit," she said, nudging Amelia toward the mattress.

Amelia sat, only to pop back onto her feet again. "Why should I have to sit and take this lying down?" she spat, shoulders hunched and tense. "I'm so sick of this—this bullshit! I am not—I refuse to be the victim for one more damn second."

"I understand that," Freya said, voice soft. "But you also look a half step away from breaking completely."

Amelia laughed, the sound choked and hollow. "I've been a half step from breaking for longer than I care to remember. Soft and useless and broken. Like glass with a little bit of fluff inside. Break that clear shell and either the rain withers that fluff or the wind carries it away. I'm so sick of being sick. I'm tired of being tired."

Unable to shake the trembling in her hands, Amelia paced in an effort to direct that energy elsewhere. "I'm sick and tired of myself. Pathetic, whining, teary eyed. Emotionally distant and emotionally needy. It's a fucking tragedy." Amelia paused, her foot dragging across the carpet as she slowed to stillness. "It needs to stop. I need to stop."

Freya's eyes widened in concern. "You're not considering suicide, are you?"

Amelia blinked, her eyes glassy and doll-like. "I don't know. I never have before. It never appealed to me."

"Amelia, I think--"

The door flung open.

"Amelia!" Derek rushed in. "Are you alright? I'm so sorry. I should have known, taken precautions--"

Amelia touched his cheek with a fleeting smile. "I'm fine. Thank you for dealing with that."

His concerned expression turned into a frown. "You did something, didn't you?" He glanced at Freya. "Was this shift gradual or sudden?"

The blonde looked back and forth between them. "Sudden. She was freaking out, emotionally all over the place, and then she just got really calm."

"Hey." Her voice sounded muted to her own ears. "I'm right here."

"Dammit Amelia," Derek sighed. "I thought we were moving past this."

"I'm fine." A slow smile spread on her face, and Derek fought a flinch at the creepily smooth motion. "I'm sorry, sir. How can I make this better for you?"

His frown returned, with true anger in it this time. "Don't you dare pull that shit. We put our dynamic to the side so that this wouldn't happen—you hiding behind service or me accidentally hitting triggers. Don't you dare belittle what we have by making it a game or a manipulation."

Amelia flinched, her doll-like expression slipping. "I—I didn't mean—"

"I get that this is hard for you," Derek said. Wrapping a hand around her waist, he sat her on the bed and knelt so that they were at eye level. "I am prepared to deal with any process you need to go through. You can scream, you can cry, you can do anything you need to do. But you will be honest with me."

"Yes, sir." This time, her voice was soft and genuine, wavering with emotion.

He kissed her head. "Thank you."

Standing, he said, "There's a woman outside—a reporter. I know her from a piece that she wanted to do on the Club. If you want to take the reins on the narrative, we can talk to her. If not, I'll ask her to leave."

Freya frowned. "Do we really want to give these people any new information?"

Derek shook his head. "I really don't know. But I can see the benefit of having someone on our side to control the story. But Amelia, it's your choice."

Amelia chewed on her lip. "I don't know what I'd say."

"I would keep it simple." Derek looked to his sister for confirmation. "Give her a couple sentences, primarily with information that has likely already been made public. That way you appear available and like you're not hiding anything, but you still don't give people any potential ammunition."

Amelia took a deep breath and stood. "A couple sentences. Alright. I'm going to sum up my life and my trauma in a couple sentences. How the hell do I do that?"