“He doesn’t know that.” She releases my face, hands me back my phone. “You look exactly like the kind of young professional who would follow her new client on social media. It’s perfect.”
The ring around my neck is burning. Or maybe that’s just every nerve ending in my body firing at once.
“Don’t reply,” Alex says firmly. “Not tonight. Wait until tomorrow. Keep it professional.”
“What do I even say?”
“Something boring. ‘Looking forward to working together’ or whatever corporate bullshit you’d normally say.” She picks up her wine, takes a long drink. “But Dylan?—”
“What?”
“He’s watching you now.” Her eyes are serious. Scared. “He’s going through your profile right now. Looking at your pictures. Your friends. Your life.”
“He can see you in my photos,” I breathe.
Alex goes pale. “He knows about me now.”
My lungs forget how to work again. Second time in five minutes. New record. “I’m sorry. Fuck, Alex, I’m so sorry?—”
“Don’t.” She cuts me off, but her voice is shaking. “Don’t apologize for this.”
“But he knows your face now. He knows we’re—” I can’t finish the sentence.
Best friends. Roommates. Inseparable. All the things that make her a target.
“Good,” she says fiercely. Her pupils dilate, jaw tight. “Let him know. Let him know you’re not alone. That if something happens to you, someone will notice. Someone will come looking.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not supposed to be.” She grabs my hand. Squeezes. “Paréa, remember? Through everything. Even this.”
“Even this,” I whisper.
As if to prove her point, my phone buzzes three times in rapid succession.
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
MarcusAshfordOfficial liked your photo
I open Instagram with shaking hands. He liked the last six photos I posted. Going back months. A picture of coffee. A sunset from our terrace. Me and Alex at Aegean Dreams. Another sunset. My desk at work. A picture of a dandelion from last spring.
He’s scrolling through my entire feed.
Learning about me.
Learning about us.
“Turn it off.” Alex’s voice cuts through my panic. “Put the phone down. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”
I set the phone face down on the coffee table. But I can still feel it there. Buzzing occasionally. Each notification is another like. Another comment. Another piece of my life he’s claiming.
That’s dramatic. It’s just Instagram.
Except it’s not. And I know it’s not.
We sit in silence for a moment. The PowerPoint presentation still glowing on the TV. Marcus’s face smiling from the screen. Two million followers. America’s boyfriend. Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor.
