There was a sharp ringing in her ear and Tate stumbled away from the door. Dropped the peanut butter. When she turned around, Sanders was standing behind her. They stared at each other. Just stared, for about a minute solid.

Traitor.

She took off running up the stairs. Sanders thundered after her, calling out her name. She had never heard him speak in such a loud tone before; any other time, and she would've been in awe. She ran down the hall, almost biting it in her heels once. She skated through Jameson's door just before Sanders and managed to shut it in his face, turning the lock. She dashed out onto a balcony that had been converted in to a sun room. Jameson kept his computer out there. She had never bothered with it before, never had a reason to.

Tate knew Sanders had keys to everything and would be in the room in no time, so she acted quickly. Typed Jameson's name in to Google. More of the same info came up, so she just immediately went to the images tab.

She was shocked to see a lot more pictures of herself – she had never noticed any photographers anywhere they went. Her and Jameson walking out of his office building; her and Jameson eating lunch; her and Sanders, laughing next to him outside of a movie theatre; her and Jameson kissing while he held an umbrella over her. She couldn't figure out why at first. Why were there so many all of the sudden? She clicked on one so it would take her to the website of origin, and then gasped at the headline.

Who Will Financial Mogul Jameson Kane Choose? A Sexy American or A Danish Beauty?

Tate scrolled down. Several of the photos of them together were in the article. But the other pictures interested her more. There were a couple old ones of him and Pet together, but a couple of very new ones, too. Them entering a hotel together, exiting the same hotel together. Him holding a car door open for her. His arm around her waist as they entered a clothing boutique.

It was a German tabloid. Tate learned that Pet lived part of the time in Berlin, that's why there was a lot of interest. Some small time rag-reporter had noticed that Jameson was tooling around Berlin with Pet, and then discovered the photos of Tate and Jameson online. Boom. Story. Sex. Scandal. Intrigue. Hell, even Tate would want to read something like that.

If it wasn't actually about me. At least they called me sexy.

She was scrolling through another article when Sanders finally opened the door and strode in to the room. He reached for the computer mouse and she batted his hand away. A minor slapping war ensued for a couple moments before she leapt out of the chair. He reached for her arm, but she pushed him away.

“How could you not tell me!?” Tate demanded, circling him. He looked upset.

“I couldn't. I'm very sorry, Ms. O'Shea,” Sanders replied.

“Fuck you! We're supposed to be friends! How long have you known about them!?” she shouted.

“For about two weeks. I advised him that it was a poor choice,” he told her.

“Oh, you advised him, how kind of you. Did you know he was bringing her here tonight?” she asked. His look went from upset to pained.

“Yes,” Sanders said softly. She gasped.

“How could you let me come here? I thought we were friends. How could you do this to me?” Tate whispered.

“Because I told him to.”

They both turned to see Jameson standing in the middle of his bedroom. He took off his suit jacket and then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Took off his watch and threw it onto the side table. Sanders cleared his throat.

“Sir, I think you owe it to Ms. -,”

“Leave.”

Glancing at Tate once, Sanders walked out of the room. Tate struggled to even out her breathing and entered the bedroom proper. Jameson was carrying his suitcase in to his closet. There was a clattering of hangers and he walked back out with a new shirt in his hands.

“Why?” Tate whispered. He lifted his eyes to hers. A pair of blue ice cycles. It felt like it had been longer than a month since she had last seen him. She felt like she was looking at a stranger.

Did I ever know him?

“What's that, baby girl?” Jameson asked, changing in to the fresh shirt.

“Don't call me that!” she snapped. He chuckled.

“I call you anything I want,” he replied.

“Not anymore. Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” she asked.

“It's all a game, isn't it? I thought you liked games,” Jameson said, throwing the worn shirt onto his bed.

“Fuck your games,” Tate hissed.

“See, now that sounds more like you. It was a very long flight, baby girl, and I could really use something to relax me. Feel like getting on your knees?” he asked. She guffawed.

“Not fucking likely. Ask your girlfriend to do that for you,” she told him.

“But I don't have a girlfriend.”

“Really? Seems to me there is a five-foot-ten 'Danish beauty' who would argue that point,” Tate pointed out. He sighed.

“There you go again, making assumptions. Would you like to meet her? You'd probably get along,” he said.

“Why are you doing this!? What happened that made you so mad!? I waited for you! Just like you said! Why did you ask me to wait if you were just going to bring her home!?” Tate yelled at him.

“You don't like seeing my picture in the tabloids, right? Well, I like it even less,” he suddenly said. She was lost.

“What?” she asked.

“I don't like being made a fool of, Tate. And that's what I feel like you did,” he informed her.