Chapter Thirty-Seven
Grace
When I return to work, nobody tries to throw eggs or rotten tomatoes at me. So yay for a win?
But that doesn’t mean there’s no harassment. Some people with no lives have discovered my Instagram account—or maybe Viv let it slip using another anonymous account she created just to egg them on—and currently my inbox is full of people yelling at me for being a “horrible human being who doesn’t deserve to live.”
Why do so many people phrase it as “don’t deserve to live,” as though that’s somehow nicer than saying “deserve to die”? But apparently, I am underserving of life according to a bunch of strangers online. And so is my baby because it’s just a “tool to steal her sister’s man.”
Well, I refuse to give them any power over me. It’s not like Ihaveto check Instagram or anything. But the rabid mob behavior is unacceptable. Someone more fragile, or at the end of their rope, might feel compelled to take a drastically harmful measure.
They also say I shouldn’t continue to work at the Pryce Family Foundation because a horrible human being like me shouldn’t be in a position of power over the most vulnerable segment of the population. Of course, they have no idea what I do at the foundation. I never meet the people we help. I just organize fundraisers so we can raise money to assist. As a matterof fact, most of people I deal with are vendors and venue people and donors, who are far wealthier and more influential than me.
Several people in the office greet me, congratulate me on the marriage and ooh and aah over my ring without mentioning the gossip. They probably know me too well to believe the garbage online. Furthermore, it’s Elizabeth’s policy to not discuss or address unfounded rumors that don’t concern our mission. Her stance is “Rumors do not advance our goals. They hinder us by sapping our mental energy and focus.”
“If you need a guy who knows a guy, let me know,” Tolyan says, his voice as flat as usual. But a glint in his eye seems to indicate he’s joking. He needs to work on his delivery—not that I’ll tell him that, since he can get scary when he’s annoyed.
“Yeah? You know somebody who doesn’t mind effing up a girl?” I tease.
“I might. Just because somebody lacks a penis doesn’t mean she should avoid accountability.”
“I’ll…keep that in mind. Thanks.”
I check my email. Another venue came through, so the art auction can continue as scheduled. Of course, we’ll need to move a lot of items from the old place to the new, but the contract from the previous hall specified they’d cover the cost incurred in a situation like this.
At eleven thirty a.m. I get a text from Joey.
–Joey: So all Ted has to do is show up at noon?
My belly jitters a little. I can’t believe Joey not only responded last night but offered to do what he could. Although he promised to do me a favor, in my experience people often become too busy when asked.
–Me: Yes. With his friends and entourage.
–Joey: And be himself?
–Me: Yes. Don’t let me down, Oh Fairy Godmother I didn’t know I had.
–Joey: You know what? I think I like you. Don’t worry. Your wish and all that.
I cover my mouth to suppress a little squeak. Huxley said I was foolish to involve Joey and Ted, but I want them there if possible. Ted’s fame will ensure what I’m about to do will get the attention it deserves. Viv used the details of my wedding to make her post go viral. I can do the same with the people at my wedding, although I’m not asking anyone but Ted and Joey. Huxley said I should ask his brothers instead, but I’m too nervous to bug them. Plus, none of them are as famous as Ted Lasker.
Then I close my laptop, gather my purse and drive to Huxley & Webber.
The law firm occupies seven stories of a thirty-six-story building. It has a huge marbled lobby with a high ceiling and incredible acoustics. Andreas told me never to say anything I wanted to keep secret in the lobby because every sound carries and echoes.
But now, it’s perfect for my needs. Viv and Peter turned me into an online spectacle. They’re about to get a taste of their own medicine.
A security person in a dark navy uniform comes over, his round head shinier than the polished marble floor of the lobby. “Miss…?”
“Mrs. Huxley Lasker,” I say smoothly. A big, warm hand rests on the small of my back, and I smile. Huxley has arrived just in time, like he said he would.
“Hello, wife.” He kisses my cheek.
“Hello.” I turn to the security, who is eying Huxley with surprise. “Jeremiah Huxley should’ve given you instructions.”
“She did,” the man says.
Jeremiah didn’t get upset when I contacted her about the post. She merely cackled with glee. “How much do you want to squeeze out of these two? Name the number. No matter how big, I’ll make them pay.”
