“Girl.” She started scrolling. “There’s a whole movement defending you. #TeamTashi is trending. People are calling out the slut-shaming, talking about polyamory, and discussing consent and workplace dynamics in actually intelligent ways.”
“There are also people calling me a whore.”
“Yeah and fuck those people.” Marta spoke matter-of-factly. “But don’t let the assholes drown out everyone else. Look—” She showed me her screen. “This thread has fifty thousand likes. It’s a breakdown of why consensual polyamory between adults isn’t anyone else’s business.”
I read the thread, then another, then another. And Marta was right—mixed in with the vitriol and judgment, there were thousands of people defending me. Strangers who didn’t know me but understood that my private life wasn’t public property.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I said finally. “The Gaming Commission still has the video. Kurt Wilder is still out for blood. The brothers could lose everything because of me.”
“Kurt Wilder? Daniel’s father?”
“Yeah, I didn’t know he was here. But Daniel did and filled his head with nonsense.”
“And what does he have to do with this?”
“He’s on the Gaming Commission and has it out for me.”
“Like that isn’t personal.”
“It doesn’t matter if the charges seem true. This whole video thing is more fuel on the fire.”
Marta sat with her hands on her thighs, sighed, and then said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?” I said sharply.
“This isn’t your fault, Tashi. Someone stole private footage and released it to humiliate you all. That’s a crime. You’re the victim here, not the perpetrator.”
“Then why do I feel so guilty?”
“Because you’re you.” Marta squeezed my hand. “You take responsibility for everything, even things that have nothing to do with you. It’s both your best and worst quality.”
I laughed despite myself. “Thanks?”
“Anytime.” She stood up, surveying the suite with an appraising eye. “Now. When was the last time you ate?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Took a shower?”
“Yesterday. Maybe.”
“Changed clothes?”
I looked down at the same outfit I’d been wearing since the video dropped. “Does it count if I never went to bed?”
“No.” Marta pointed toward the bathroom. “Shower. Now. You get room service here, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes. And the kitchen knows about my food allergies.”
“Good. I’ll order food.”
“Marta—”
“Shower, Tashi. I’m not asking.”
I knew that tone. There was no point in arguing. I dragged myself to the bathroom, turned the water as hot as I could stand, and let it wash away at least some of the weight pressing down on me.
When I emerged twenty minutes later in clean clothes with wet hair, the suite smelled like Thai food. Marta had commandeered the coffee table with her laptop, a notepad, and what looked like a battle plan.
