Page 103 of The Unfluencer

The Gentry Network has issued a brief statement acknowledging the investigation and confirming that Harrison has been placed on administrative leave. No charges have yet been filed.

The Ellswood Times will continue to report as more is learned in this ongoing investigation, one that threatens not only a powerful executive, but the carefully curated image of an entire social empire.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whitney

Unfluential

“This one’s damaged,” Clive says.

It’s not a yell or even a loud whisper. It’s not even directed to me. But he’s in the framing room off the back exit, and I’m in the open gallery, adjusting the light on Sherry’s self-portrait, making sure the gallery’s flow works, so I hear it like an announcement.

“Whitney Graves…” His voice lifts with caution.

Then he gasps dramatically as a hollow rip echoes off the walls.

And that’s it.

Panic streaks through me, and I frantically climb down the ladder. Mentally, I’m bracing myself as I round the standing partition.

“Take a deep breath, Whit.” Clive inhales softly. “I found it.”

He’s standing at the back of the framing room in his pink polo and khaki shorts, not slacks this morning—summer calves on full display—leaned against the wall, holding “it,” as in the sign I’ve been waiting for.

Lucky number thirteen that Warner sent over with a note.

Deep breaths in, deep breaths out.

“Open me, Whit.” Clive’s voice drops five octaves as he tries to imitate Warner. “Please, open me up and come get me.”

My heart hammers against my ribs.

I’m shaking my head, thinking about the timing, what I’d say to Warner, whether he’d even be happy to see me. “It’s already two p.m.”

“And the doors aren’t scheduled to open until six, so…” Clive tugs, and another loud rip tears the air.

It’s just craft paper. Logically, I know this. I’ve wrapped countless pieces, tied them with tweed in preparation for delivery. But instinctually, I hate the sound. Usually because it triggers a visceral urge to claw my ears off. In this case, I’m not sure I’m ready to see—or hear—what’s behind door number thirteen.

Except Clive and I are so in tune, he knows I won’t be able to resist.

We’re like that.

“I can’t believe it…” I say more to myself than to Clive. My attention slips, dropping to the tiny sliver of warm turquoise peeking from behind the brown craft paper. “Is everything done? We’ve still got to make sure the wall labels are placed, I’ve been dusting like crazy, caterers will be here in a couple hours…” I keep listing to give myself something else to focus on. “Music, AV equipment, the guestbook, security protocols.”

“Mm hmm.” Clive flutters his eyelashes, utterly unimpressed. Then he gives the ripped craft paper edge a tiny tug. “You’re wasting time.”

He’s just standing there cheesing. And waiting.

“You know there’s a million things I should be doing right now,” I huff.

“And you know this is the only one that matters right now,” he snaps back.

My watch pings, telling me it’s time to stand up, and I can’t even look at Clive. There’s zero chance he’ll pass up the opportunity to tack something social media-spirational on the end of that directive.

“Cat got your finger? Like, do I need to help you lift it?” He cackles. “Time is of the essence, ma’am.”

“Relax, I’m halfway there.”