My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Marco.
You’ve seen the hit piece? Don’t engage. I’m handling it.
So of course he would have heard about it by now. Probably has entire teams scanning social media looking for specific keywords.
“Handling it.”
Right. Because nothing says “this isn’t what it looks like” than a billionaire mobilizing his legal team.
Three dots appear. Then another text.
Sabrina’s coming over. Don’t respond to anything. Don’t post. Don’t even like a comment. Total radio silence.
I stare at the text. He’s literally down the hall. Probably in his home office running damage control with Elena.
I could walk over there right now. Have this conversation face to face instead of through screens like a normal person.
Except that would require me to look him in the eye and pretend I’m fine. And my face does this thing where it broadcasts every emotion in high definition. Can’t hide anything. Especially not the sick feeling in my stomach or the fact that part of me wants him to march into this bathroom and tell me he’s going to burn Marlowe’s entire influencer empire to the ground.
When your boss is three rooms away and you’re having an emotional crisis in his daughter’s bathroom.
Peak professionalism right here.
I type back:Already wasn’t planning to.
Because what would I even comment on the video?
“Actually we did sleep together but there are rules now?”
“The contract specifically prohibits this but we violated it once and I can’t stop thinking about how he tastes? Okay twice if you count the kiss the other day...”
Yeah. That’ll clear things right up.
Ben appears in the doorway clutching Frederick. “Why do you look sad?”
I force a smile. “Just tired, sweetie. Come on. Let’s finish your hair.”
She climbs onto the stool. I work the product through her curls on autopilot while my brain spins out.
I manage to avoid Marco for the rest of the morning. Sabrina arrives at nine.
I’m still in Marco’s kitchen because Ben wanted to help Rosa make theconchiglie al burroand I needed to be somewhere that felt normal.
Sabrina sets her laptop on the island. No preamble. She goes straight into PR mode. “Okay. Here’s what we’re not doing. We’re not responding. We’re not issuing statements. We’re not feeding this.”
“She basically called me a prostitute,” I point out.
“She implied it. Didn’t say it directly. That’s the whole game.” Sabrina pulls up the video. Studies it with the clinical detachment of someone who’s seen this playbook a thousand times. “She’s farming engagement off parasocial concern. The second you engage, you validate the narrative.”
I fold my arms. “So I just let her keep posting about me?”
“You let her run out of content. Whichshe will. Fast.” Sabrina closes the laptop. “Trust me. I’ve handled worse than wannabe mommy bloggers.”
My phone buzzes. Filepe this time. A text in what seems to be the security group chat I didn’t know existed until now.
Noticed repeat plate at pickup yesterday and today. Silver Mazda CX-5. Logged and watching.
Then Luis:Adding to watchlist. Possible curb ambush.
