I tapped my fingers on the desk and waited.

“She’ll see you. Take the elevator up to floor seven.” She waved a hand in the direction of a bank of elevators before handing me a sticky paper. “Here’s your guest pass. Please make sure you wear it someplace visible at all times.”

Placing the sticker over my chest, I thanked her and made my way to the elevators, passing the security guard on my way. When I arrived on the seventh floor, I had no idea what to expect. I’d never given the Post much thought, couldn’t have cared less when they printed lies about me or used my name to sell papers. But this—bringing Sutton into things—was unacceptable.

“Mr. Martin,” a tall brunette woman greeted me as soon as I stepped out. “I’m surprised to see you here.” She gave me a flirtatious grin. “Kind of.”

“I take it, you’re Miss Darling?” I said the name like it tasted as ridiculous as it sounded.

“I am.”

“Do you have somewhere we can speak privately?” I made sure that my tone wasn’t threatening. I wanted her to feel comfortable, to believe that I wasn’t angry. I planned on saving my anger and threats for when we were alone.

“There’s a conference room we can use,” she said as she turned her back and navigated through a maze of cubicles.

My mere presence was enough to get tongues wagging and eyes bulging. It seemed like everyone stopped what they were doing to watch my every move.

Daisy paused in front of an oversize mahogany door and held it with one arm. “Here,” she said.

As I stepped inside the room, I was thankful that no one else was waiting for us. It’d occurred to me for a split second that I might be walking into some sort of press ambush I wasn’t prepared for. I really hadn’t thought this through.

She closed the door behind us and sat across from the seat I’d chosen at the table. “How can I help you?”

“It was pretty fucked up, what you printed today.” I jumped right in, and she leaned forward, that stupid grin still on her face.

“And why’s that? What was so fucked up about it?” she asked, clearly assuming that she had the upper hand.

“Do you get off on writing about other people’s pain? Does exploiting an accident to sell papers make you feel good? Really warm your heart?”

“First of all, it’s my job to write things that make money. But in case you didn’t actually read the article—” she started, and I cut her off.

“I read it. I read every word.”

“Then, you know that I didn’t write a single lie. I wrote the truth. They just happened to be things that no one else knew yet.”

She looked impressed with herself. Like she deserved some kind of award for not exaggerating or sensationalizing Sutton’s situation.

“Those are things that no one has a right to know.” I was getting pissed again. That uncontrollable anger I felt when things were out of my control and I knew it.