“Scared, I guess. Of failing again. Even if I don’t enjoy this job, at least it’s safe.”
“If I had that money, I would go for it.” I take a breath, saying it to myself as well as him, “If you fail, you fail.”
His jaw tenses. “If I fail, I’m going to end up right back here and be just like my dad.”
My hand lays across his, fingers squeezing. “I’m sure your dad’s legacy is more than what you imagine; his work probably affected more people than you know.”
Oliver tries to avoid rolling his eyes as I continue. “A claims manager makes sure peoplegettheir money, right? What if someone’s house burns down? Your dad making sure they got the money meant they could rebuild their lives.”
His gaze softens, a dimple appearing on one side of his mouth. “Is that what you’re doing? Rebuilding after the house burns down?”
I remove my hand from his and run my finger up the stem of the glass. “That’s one way to put it.”
He doesn’t ask a follow-up question, just leaves the space open for me to share if I want to. I consider Cecily’s words of encouragement, Dr. Bernie’s advice onstage, and whether I’m already in too deep with my feelings for Oliver.
Maybe I should pull back and continue to hide this part of myself from him. But if I wanted to do that, why am I here? I’ve been saying I don’t want to know him, that I don’t want him to know me. But I want to tell him what happened to me.
“He, my ex, took photos of me. When we were being... intimate.” I clear the words from my throat. “And he sent it to a group chat with his work friends. My colleagues.”
Oliver’s brows turn inward. “Fuck, what a piece of shit.”
“The photos didn’t have my face in them, but we were newly exclusive, so who else would it have been? Once they inevitably spread, people knew it was me. Malcolm was in some of them too, but people didn’t care that it was him; the photos wereof me. I came into work, and everyone was staring and whispering. I don’t know how I knew what happened, but I just knew.”
I take a fortifying gulp of wine. “There were only a few other women in the office. One of them said she had heard rumors of what was being circulated. When I asked Malcolm about it, he didn’t deny it.
“I never saw Malcolm as my person, like the love of my life or anything—we’d only been exclusive for a few months, but to have someone you trusted do that to you... it was like it was his plan the entire time we were together, when he was pursuing me...” I trail off, unable to express the feeling. “Afterward, my entire world imploded. Work, friends, family, how others saw me, how I saw myself...”
“Jesus, I can’t ever imagine wanting to do that to someone,” Oliver muses, staring at my hand.
I shrug, almost numb to it. “Those kinds of companies are always pitting the highest-performing juniors against each other... I was doing better than him, receiving more praise from our mentors, getting invited to more high-level meetings. One of the few women in your office outperforming you isn’t a good look in those kinds of circles. Especially your own girlfriend.”
Oliver looks disgusted. “So instead of trying harder, he did... that.”
My voice wobbles as I nod solemnly. “In hindsight, I think he wanted it to wreck me.”
“Isn’t revenge porn illegal in the UK? Did you press charges?”
I nod my confirmation. “Since 2015. But because Malcolm was not only my boyfriend but also my colleague, instead of immediately going to the police, I went to HR and reported it.” I shake my head. “I should have gone to the police, but our director convinced me to not press charges. I guess Graystone didn’t want a public scandal. They’d already been in hot water for their manager wage gap and their appalling lack of diverse hiring. The last thing they wanted was one of the few women who they let in being photographed without her consent, and the press getting wind of it.” I wipe an escaping tear from my cheek. “They told me if I went to the police, the chances of prosecution would be minimal, so they offered me a deal instead. They told me they would get rid of Malcolm if I agreed to an NDA, if I didn’t ‘make a scene.’” I finger quote, remembering the exact way the head of HR said the words. “Malcolmwas put on temporary leave while they decided what to do with him; the deliberation period was longer than he and I were even together. After it was all over, I stayed at Graystone for a while, but I knew everyone there was judging me, had seen underneath my clothes, and measured me by what they saw. Every side-eye when I entered a room, every off comment from a male colleague. I knew they would never respect me again. I couldn’t handle it. Every person I spoke to, all I could think was ‘Have they seen it?’ I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t perform to the standard I was before because every time anyone looked at me, it felt like that day all over again. I couldn’t get through a day without a panic attack. So eventually, I left.”
In the moment, I decide against telling Oliver that my director noticed I was spiraling and bought my silence with an offer of garden leave and a generous severance package. The money I used to create Wyst. Instead, I bend the truth. “That’s why I work for Wyst. If I had access to information on exactly what to do in that situation, I would have gone to the police instead, pressed charges.”
Instead of accepting a bribe that’s drying up before my eyes.
Oliver’s jaw ticks as he studies my face. “And I’m guessing you had no idea he was going to be here at TechRumble?”
“No. I blocked him on every social media platform. Turns out he’s a business journalist now.” I shrug. “If you can’t do it, write about other people doing it, I guess.”
He leans forward, placing his hand on mine like I did his. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”
I don’t correct him. I don’t tell him that I’mstillgoing through that. I’ve spent so much time thinking about Malcolm it feels like we were so much more than just a fledgling relationship. When we both agreed to the deal Graystone presented, we signed a contract together. Forever bound by ink and paper. A marriage of convenience—I don’t press charges; he deletes the images and requests everyone he sent them to delete them. But I would be naive to think that would be the end of it. Once an image is out there, it’s never completely gone.
I sit back, blowing out a breath. “Sorry, that was a lot. Maybe it’s all the competition in the air; we didn’t need to have a trauma-off.” I laugh, wiping at my lash line before another tear escapes.
He keeps his hand wrapped around mine, running a comforting thumb over my palm. “The experiences are part of us. They shaped who we are, for better or for worse. But yeah, I think we deserve a stronger drink.”
After another glass of wine, we ease into lighter topics—likes and dislikes, favorite books, and movies. Mine:Legally Blonde. His:Ratatouille, obviously. I admit I missed out on all pasta and gelato in Rome, much to his dismay.
“At the risk of sounding like a stalker, I couldn’t find a trace of you anywhere online after Rome.”
