Having already signed myself, I stare at them from across the conference table in my lawyer’s firm, my hands cupped and pressed against my mouth as I study them. Their lawyer, Jude Albright, sits between them, softly muttering something to Hannah.
They’re the two girls who were talking to Rev in their dorm hallway a little over a week ago, the ones responsible for the sex tape. Kaitlin recorded it, and Hannah posted it on a burner Reddit account with the caption:Dreadful Sharpe fucking Charlotte D’Amour.
Real fucking couth.
After I saw them in the hallway looking guilty as fuck, Rev knew both their names, so I found their student emails and forwarded the information to my lawyer, Mark, who had an email sent to both of themthe next morning. We let them know we knew they were responsible, and if they chose not to settle, we’d be pressing criminal charges for revenge porn.
Scared absolutely shitless, they folded like fucking lawn chairs and fessed up immediately. So, we’ve spent the last week going back and forth with their attorneys, working on an agreement.
Within the time of them recording and posting the video and receiving Mark’s email, they swore they didn’t tell a single soul. In fact, their lawyer demanded I not release their names to the public, fearful of online harassment if I did.
Ultimately, they agreed to sign an NDA, to delete the video and Reddit account, and keep their mouths shut for good. Neither of them can so much as hint at it, even through fucking charades. In return, I agreed to keep their names private and not press charges or sue the fuck out of them for revenge porn unless they break the contract.
They’re not willing to face jail time, so there wasn’t a single protest.
“Okay, we’re all squared away then,” Mark announces, collecting the contracts and tucking them away in a folder.
“Great,” Jude chirps, clapping his hands, Hannah startling next to him. “Again, we’re so sorry for all the trouble and appreciate the two of you being so gracious to Kaitlin and Hannah.”
Mark shakes his hand before Jude heads for the door, the girls silent with their heads down as they follow him. Once the door snicks shut, Mark turns to me.
When I first met Marcus Agassi, he had a full head of black hair, a thick black beard, and youth to his brown skin. Now, white has taken over half his facial hair up to his temples, and he’s developed quite a few wrinkles.
He blames me for aging him, and he’s probably not wrong.
He’s been my lawyer since my mother’s murder trial, and he’s been a loyal friend ever since. He damn near helped raise me when my grandmother was too burnt out to deal with a little kid going through absolute hell.
I was angry and got into a fuck ton of trouble—constantly getting in fist fights with kids at school, failing my classes, mouthing off to anyone with a fucking pulse. He was the one who put my ass into swimming to redirect my energy. It changed my life, and I owe him everything.
“Did you hear back from your manager about the dataremoval service?” Mark asks, stuffing his hands in his suit pants pockets and leaning his hips against the table.
“Yep. As of this morning, they scrubbed it from the internet in every corner they could find. We can’t get it off people’s phones, obviously, so they’re contracted to continuously remove it any time someone re-uploads it.”
Mark nods. “Good.”
He stares expectantly. I arch a brow. We both wait for the other to crack.
After several beats, Mark rolls his eyes. “You’re seriously gonna make me ask?”
I furrow my brow. “Ask what?”
His face flattens into a deadpan stare. “Don’t be a dick. Reverie Adams? Or, rather, Charlotte D’Amour? You’re—” He waves his hand, silently emoting rather than just saying the word.
“Fucking? Am I fucking her?” I offer.
He scoffs. He’s like a typical parent who doesn’t want to hear about their kid having sex.
“Yes.That. You two are doing that together?”
I grin. He grew up in a strict Armenian household, where openly discussing sexual matters was rather taboo—something that’s still ingrained into him in his fifties.
“She’s my girlfriend,” I say.
He just stares at me, as if he can’t tell if I’m fucking with him or not.
I heave out a heavy breath and lean back in my chair. He’s one of the very few people I can talk to about this shit. He, more than anyone, understands my sordid history with Reverie.
“I don’t know what happened,” I confess quietly, pinning my stare on the cherrywood table.
