Page 112 of Sexting His Assistant

“What are you looking for?” he asks.

“Just trust the process,” I tell him.

Alina’s profile comes up almost immediately.

Her display picture is a perfect close-up of her face, all glossy dark hair, soft mouth, and cheekbones that could cause structural damage. Her account is public, because women like Alina don’t live quietly. They perform privacy. There’s a difference.

I tap her profile.

The grid loads.

Champagne. Private jets. A yacht. A hotel balcony in Monaco. Flowers in white wrapping paper. A mirror selfie in a cream dress. A blurry dinner table with expensive cutlery. A hand holding a wine glass, captioned: some nights change everything

My stomach twists.

I hate her captions already.

Luka leans closer.

I glance at him. “Stop breathing like a prosecutor.”

“I’m looking.”

“You are hovering.”

“I’m injured. I cannot hover.”

I give him a look, but only because his proximity makes my belly do stupid things.

I scroll.

Most of Alina’s photos are exactly what I expect. Beautiful woman in beautiful places, pretending not to know she’s being photographed. There are comments from other women with white heart emojis, men with no shame, and at least three verified accounts who need to be banned from the internet.

Nothing useful.

I tap into her highlights.

There are too many of them. I scroll through her international trip highlights.

I keep scrolling, half angry and half ashamed of myself for being angry. I have no idea what I’m even looking for. Proof that she’s lying? Proof that he’s lying? Proof that I’m not a complete idiot for letting myself believe him?

Mostly, I’m just punishing myself with a beautiful woman’s Instagram, which is a very modern form of self-harm.

I tap into her highlights. There are too many.

I click the one that says Paris.

The first story is champagne being poured.

I tap. Oysters.

Tap. A bathroom mirror video.

Tap. White roses on a table.

Tap. A hallway outside the private rooms.

Tap. Alina laughing with two women I don’t recognize.