Worried that he was going to open his eyes atany second, and catch me staring, I start the process of extricating myself from the bed, moving as slowly and carefully as possible until I managed to work myself to the edge of the bed. Easing myself over it, I snagged my phone off the nightstand before making my way outside, desperate for some sort of distraction.
The first thing I see is a string of texts from Gwen, the last one sent last night, the time stamp telling me it was sent while I was busy perving out on Dean in the shower. Pushing the image out of my mind so I can function, I read her text.
Gwen: Okay… don’t freak out, but someone posted a video of your Paige and Allister smackdown from a burner account on TikTok a few days ago.
I knew that traditional media would pick up the story. While I enjoy a certain amount of anonymity as Preston Blackwell’sboring daughter, Page Six is obsessed with Paige now that Delilah Hawthorne is no longer running naked through Central Park and setting nightclubs on fire. I knew that news of her being involved in a cheating scandal—one that involved me of all people—would be too juicy for them to pass up—but it never occurred to me that one of my wedding guests would take a video of my bout of temporary insanity and post it on the internet.
Me: A video?!?! Who took a video?
Like she’s been glued to her phone for hours, waiting for me to reply, Gwen texts me back withinseconds.
Gwen: I don’t know. But they caught almost everything. Aunt Renee is demanding that Uncle Andy launch an FCC investigation to find out who it was. She’s having a full-on meltdown. He told her to go fuck herself. LMFAO
That one makes me laugh. Imagine having the audacity to make demands on the Vice President of the United States. Even if Uncle Andy could do something like that, which I’m not sure he can, he wouldn’t. For our father, maybe—but not for my Aunt Renee.
Gwen: Now Paige is telling everyone that you and Dean have been going at it for years and that she and Allister only started seeing each other after they found out you two were doing it. Like the texts between the two of them don’t go back for literal years, Besides, Dad asked Dean outright if you two have been sleeping together and he said no.
I guess that answers my question about what my father wanted when he demanded I put Dean on the phone Sunday afternoon.
Me: Dean and I can barely stand each other. I only asked him to come with me because?—
Because why, exactly?
Because you went temporarily crazy?
Because you saw him standing there and thought it would be a good idea to mess up his life?
Before I figure it out, another text from Gwen comes through.
Gwen: Holy shit! Have you checked your IG account?!?!?
I’m on Instagram exactly one time a week—every Friday to be exact. I post a picture, usually of my breakfast or the view from my office with some stupid caption, because it’s either that or incur the wrath of Stacey, the family’s publicist.
I know you think it’s okay to let Gwen and Paige do the heavy lifting when it comes to social media but they appeal to a completely different demographic. You’re smart. Career-focused. There are plenty of women out there who would love to hear what you have to say. I need you to clock in and start pulling your weight.
After an embattled negotiation, I agreed to one post a week. I chose Fridays because statistically, it’s the best day for exposure and engagement.
It’s only Thursday, so no—I haven’t logged into Instagram and I didn’t plan to until tomorrow.
Backing out of my text messages, I tap the little camera icon on my phone screen and am instantly connected to my account. For a second, I have no idea what Gwen is so excited about. All I see is a picture of last Friday’s morning coffee with the captionrise and shine, attached to the bottom.
It has 950k likes and nearly fifty thousand comments, which has to be a mistake because my likes and comments have never been that high. I don’t even have that many?—
Looking at my bio, I nearly choke on my own tongue.
9 million followers.
Last Friday, I didn’t even haveonemillion followers.
Switching back to my texts, I delete the text I was going to send to Gwen and send another one.
Me: What’s happening?
My sister texts me back almost immediately.
Gwen: You’re a fucking ICON, that’s what’s happening. Refresh your account.
Toggling back to Instagram, I check my bio again.
