Chapter 147 - The Fake Engagement

Now, the room even gets crazier with what Gabriel just said; if the questions were rain, Gabriel would be drenched.

But Gabriel keeps an expressionless face; he says nothing, waiting for the room's excitement to die down.

"Please stay in your seats. Let Gabriel address your questions clearly. We can't work like this if you don't follow the agreed protocol," Catherine says, standing, her gestures extra-animated. She's telling he crowd to keep still, yet she's obviously agitated, too—she didn't expect what Gabriel just said. She had known how much Michelle Alcantara had hated the girl, Claire, but she had dismissed it as nothing but the hatred of an ex, of a woman scorned. Now it seems Michelle's resentment has a basis.

"It is true," Gabriel continues in a steady, clear voice, looking at those before him. "I first met Claire as a job applicant less than a month ago. Right at a time when I was deeply hurting from what happened to my personal relationship. I'm sure you are aware of what happened between me and my previous fiancée, Michelle. It's all a matter of public record, no matter how much I wanted to keep my personal life private." He sighs. "When I first met Claire, and she doesn't know this even now, I was struck by how she'd gaze into your eyes. Like you could drown in those eyes and not even care about getting back. That's how deeply I was impressed by her. And the funny thing was, she wasn't even trying. She was just answering all the standard questions I threw at her. But something clicked inside me. I thought of something crazy, which now, in hindsight, was indeed absolutely absurd. Instead of hiring her for an open job position, I made up a job on the spot: I asked her to pretend to be my new fiancée."

For some weird reason, the crowd stays quiet and still this time, as though giving Gabriel space to frame his thoughts.

"I knew that right from the start!" Gary Smulder exclaims, still watching the event unfold in the Muckraker office. "I knew something was wrong. I was at that pool party, Pat—"he turns to Patrick, who's also still watching the TV—"and they kicked me out. I spoke to that girl, Claire. I didn't even realize it was her until they kicked me out and saw all the—"

"If you knew all of that, then where the hell is the juicy write-up you could have written?" Patrick's voice by now has turned cold, as though he has already accepted defeat; that this ship has sailed, leaving them marooned in the island of obscurity.

"Well…" is all Gary manages to say.

"And yes, I admit, it was childish. But with everything that was going on at the time, I thought pretend-hiring her would be the surest way to keep her around and get to know her, instead of going the usual route. I could have chosen another way. I could have been a better man. But it was what it was. And I guess, in the end, I just got lucky."

"So you hired her, like a 'special employee' answerable only to you. Does that mean her home at one of your boutique hotels is provided by your company, too?" One of the reporters asks.

"No, all the expenses are coming from my own personal funds," Gabriel says. "This is not publicly known, but The Residence is not part of any of my existing holding companies."

"If you say that you hired Claire Monteverde as a pretend fiancée, you also said earlier that both you and Miguel fell in love with her, and you were the lucky one. Does it mean you're currently in a real relationship now? That there's no pretense, anymore?"

"Yes," Gabriel says "It's a long story, a crazy rollercoaster ride, and I would love to tell you that in another time. But now let's just stay within the—"

"But how can you be sure that she really loves you? What if she only wants you for your status and money? After all, your 'relationship' began as a paid arrangement, right?"

Gabriel sighs. He looks at the reporter who asked that question; it's a lady he has never seen before. Maybe some newbie one of the newspapers sent here. And if that's true, should he feel offended that media outfits are now just sending newbies to his press conference? He glances at Claire; she's still standing there, partly hidden in the shadows, and he could feel what she feels. Face the music, he tells himself. Tell everything. The truth shall set you free. Besides, the question makes sense—how does he know, really?

"Trying to answer that in a practical sense reminds me of an old line from an old novel," Gabriel says. "To a man born blind, how do you explain sight? What words do you use? To know if Claire really loves me is to know and feel that she smiles the way she smiles because of me. But you know what? I am happy. And that's the only thing that matters. I'm happy to see her, to be with her, to discover what life has yet in store for the both of us. Does she really love me despite how our relationship started? Yes, I believe so, and the proof of that is largely invisible. It happens in those little magical moments that I could no longer describe to you. It happens in those moments that I'm only grateful to have the privilege to experience. I regret ever lying to the world about Claire. Because the truth is, who cares about a person's status in life when it comes to love? Who cares if you're rich or poor or stupid or underprivileged? I lied because I was so conditioned by my upbringing, about the world I build every single day. I lied because I was blind to the truth. And Claire cured me from all that blindness. This may be sappy, or corny, but when you're in love, the corniest lines become music to the ears." Gabriel pauses, gazing at them all. "And we're all here, in this room, on this bitter-sweet morning, because of that love."

Some of the ladies in the crowd, supposedly veterans in the newsroom, begin sniffling, so moved by Gabriel's nȧkėd declaration of his feelings. One of them, sitting in the front row, timidly asks, "What now, Gab?"

Gabriel smiles. ���Well, we're just trying to enjoy our lives, one moment at a time." He stands up, finally. "Thank you all for coming. I appreciate it." He leaves. The reporters chase him with more questions, but his security detail jumps in, making sure Gabriel gets out safely, back in the comfort of Claire's arms.

"That was quite a show," Gary says, turning off the TV. "And in the gentle words of that same reporter, 'What now, Boss?"

Patrick scoffs. "Here's something. A senator was just discovered in bed with a fourteen-year-old prȯstɨtutė," Patrick reads off his computer screen. "Go and interview not the senator, but that prȯstɨtutė. Talk to her, talk to her friends, check if she has a mother, paint a sob story. Go get it. No time to waste. There are ten freaking blank pages in this week's issue because of Gabriel's stunt, and we need that by nightfall. Go."

"Sure," Gary mutters. How low he has instantly fallen—from covering the country's richest man, to talking to teenaged prȯstɨtutės. It's mighty hard to get motivated from this; you can't get anything better than a story about Gabriel and Claire. There's no coming back from that. And as he steps out into the morning sun, Gary Smulder, esquire, eight-year on-and-off reporter for this stupid little publication, is thinking about quitting. He turns back and gazes at the yellowed signage of Muckraker magazine hanging above the front door; yeah, he thinks. Anywhere else is better than here. Like Gabriel, maybe it's time to face the music.