Aristides frowned, clearly not believing her dismissal, but before he could press further, his assistant appeared at the door, knocking softly before entering.
“Excuse me, Mr. Christakis,” she said quietly, approaching to whisper something in his ear.
Aristides’ expression darkened as he listened. He nodded once, dismissing his assistant before reaching for his phone. The atmosphere in the room had shifted dramatically.
I watched, increasingly uneasy, as Aristides scrolled through something on his phone, his jaw tightening. Something was happening, something that clearly involved me, given the way Kayla was avoiding my gaze.
“Ms. Massey,” Aristides finally said, his voice carefully controlled. “I believe there’s something you should see.” He turned his phone toward me. “Perhaps you could explain this.”
My stomach dropped. Hard.
No. No no no.
I grabbed the phone, like maybe if I held it closer it would make more sense. It didn’t. It just got worse.
That picture. That awful picture from sophomore year—eyes half-closed, mouth mid-word, flash highlighting every pore. And the headline?
Tia the Tramp.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even blink. My fingers went numb as I read the rest, each word slashing deeper.
The article launched into a sordid story about how I’d been selling sexual services on campus to pay for my tuition, had solicited some of my professors offering sex for better grades, and that I was infected with herpes, knowingly transmitting it to my “clients.”
Now out of college but still hanging on to her bad habits, Tia the Tramp has gotten her hooks into popular race-car driver Santo Christakis, the sole heir of Olympus Motors, and is now whoring her way through the summer at his Greek villa, trading ass for an all-season pass to the kind of luxury that street trash like her could never afford on her own.
As I struggled to process what I was reading, I felt the floor drop from under me, sending me into freefall. The room tilted and spun, the ceiling suddenly too close, then too far away.
What... the hell? Is this real? Are people actually reading this and thinking it’s true? The thought of millions of strangers poring over these fabrications made my skin crawl.
Kayla was talking, cutting through the roaring in my ears. “Tia. Can you hear me?”
My mind was too deeply shrouded by a fog of shock and humiliation to pay her any attention. Kayla was talking about finding the culprit, but I knew it was Katalina. She’d taken that awful picture. She’d crafted this narrative to destroy me.
I couldn’t bear it, couldn’t stand the idea of being in the same room with anyone. Without another word, I rushed out of the office and crashed into Konstantin on my way out.
I hurried past a confused Konstantin, ignoring his concerned questions. The hallway stretched before me like a tunnel, my vision narrowing as I focused only on escape. Without waiting for Kayla or the Christakis men, I took the elevator down to the lobby and rushed outside, frantically waving down a taxi.
My phone began ringing the moment I slid into the backseat. Santo’s name flashed on the screen. I silenced it, then watched asit immediately lit up again. Kayla. Then Dimitrios. Then Santo again.
“Christakis Estate, please,” I told the driver.
As we navigated through traffic, my phone continued its relentless chorus of notifications. Text messages poured in faster than I could process. I considered checking into a hotel, disappearing completely, but I needed my passport and essential belongings first.
The taxi pulled up to the estate’s tall gates. I paid the driver and walked quickly up the driveway. Idira appeared in the doorway, her face creased with worry.
“Tia, what’s happened? Santo just called—”
I brushed past her, moving toward the stairs.
“Please, let’s help you,” Domna called from the kitchen doorway.
I couldn’t face their concern, couldn’t bear to see the moment when they’d learn what was being said about me. I needed walls. And a blanket. And maybe a time machine to un-live the last hour.
I reached my room and locked the door behind me. Yanking open the closet door, I hauled out the matching set of designer luggage Kayla had insisted I buy during our shopping trip in Athens. Now I was grateful for their capacity as I flung them open on the bed and began throwing in everything that mattered.
My phone buzzed and mom’s face lit up the screen, her timing uncanny as always.
“Hey love of my life,” her voice came through, bright. “How’s the big architecture project going?”
