Chapter 4
Mallory
Friday Morning
One Day After the Outing
Mallory swore she’d never sleep with Grayson Fields again, no matter how tight training for all those marathons makes his
ass. She’s not into angry sex and not in a forgiving enough mood that would allow for any other kind.
But then how to explain waking up, curled in the corner of his bedroom with his apricot-colored Smurf of a dog huddled beside
her? Still bizarre. Grayson always seemed more the German shepherd type. Nearly a year ago, when he’d escorted her into this
apartment whose HVAC pumps filtered air and testosterone and scooped up the cockapoo, Mallory was convinced it was part of
some practical joke. But the monogrammed Harley water bowl and the ridiculous Wi-Fi–enabled collar let her know it wasn’t.
She reads people, she’s staked her career on doing it well. Surprises like that are rare.
And yet everything about Grayson has been a surprise—and not in a good way.
Grayson’s the devil. She now realizes she willingly sold her soul to him the day she accepted his investment in AIM.
Unethical behavior is one thing (she should know), but his actions are potentially illegal.
She wanted to ask Noreen to google if they could go to jail, but that would mean telling Noreen about the fake accounts.
This is Mallory’s company. Not his. She’s the first to smile through mansplaining to get a discount on server storage or tweak
a department’s performance quota to cut loose entitled Gen Z–ers without a hassle from HR. But this is outside her control,
outside Grayson’s. Why can’t he see that? Probably because he’s made sure it won’t be his waxed balls on the line if the fake
valuation comes to light.
She rises to her feet, a wooziness making her seek out the corner of the dresser, but it’s one of those trendy mid-century
deals and it’s too low. She wobbles, and her bare foot lands right on the cockapoo’s tail. Fuck. She braces for a bark or howl that will give away that she’s awake. She intends to sneak out before Grayson comes back from
the toilet or kitchen or wherever the hell he is, off collecting souls in this three-thousand-square-foot penthouse. But instead
of a bark or a howl, the squiggly furball releases the barest of whimpers and tries to curl itself around her foot. Dammit.
She’s not a dog person. Or a cat person. Or, when it comes right down to it, a people person. Ilena and Aubrey, yes. But otherwise,
people are like Wet-Naps, essential when you need them, but otherwise entirely forgettable.
Mallory scans the bedroom for her shoes and sailcloth clutch, finding neither. The gray comforter is pulled taut. Square pillows
in a yellow-and-gray fleur-de-lis pattern that are new since she was last here sit perfectly propped.
Grayson shopping for throw pillows is as hard to imagine as Grayson sitting with this stuffed animal of a dog in his lap.
She slides past the ten-thousand-dollar Eames chair, still searching for her shoes and bag.
She doesn’t exactly feel like she had sex—that usual postcoital soreness that seems to linger longer and longer the closer she gets to forty nonexistent.
She bends to look under the bed, and Harley leaps into her arms. Instinctually, she catches him.
That’s when she sees the marks on her forearm. Long, red, deep. Like fingers. A handprint.
Well, no matter what her vulva’s telling her, looks like they sure as shit did something last night. How could this have happened?
Mallory perfected the ratio of food to alcohol when she was nineteen after waking inside the Fox Club’s yellow Colonial on
JFK Street not knowing how she got there.
Screw sneaking out. She sets Harley on the floor and marches out of the bedroom. She swings left to head for the living room
and nearly collides with a four-foot-tall fountain, water flowing up and over into a bed of polished rocks that Grayson’s
more likely to use as a urinal than decor.
She storms down the hall, not past images of Muhammad Ali and Serena Williams and Tom Brady but canvas prints of ocean waves
and a lighthouse. And, Christ, a pink sunset? A fucking gnome would fit in better with Grayson’s minimalist design aesthetic
than this woo-woo crap.
Her chest clenches. He’s dating someone. Someone else. Her breathing grows rapid, but she pushes against it. She doesn’t care.
(Even though she does.)
Whatever, so he’s dating someone. Some leggy yoga instructor who’s namaste-ing this place, and yet here he is proving he’s
as much of a leech as her least favorite VC, Mr. Tom Ford Blazer, because he’s dating someone else and still slept with Mallory
after yesterday’s outing.
She grits her teeth just as her cell begins to ring.
Like a beacon, it brings her to a bamboo tote on the table against the back wall of the living room.
She peers inside. Sticky notes line the fabric walls, reminders of bills to pay and which train line goes where and her mom’s birthday?
But no clutch. Yet everything else she’d normally carry with her, including her phone, is here.
She reaches for it, pushing aside a fuzzy white Koozie she doesn’t remember taking from the outing.
The ringing stops, but on the screen are voicemail notifications—two of them, both from Ilena.
And three missed calls before that—all from Ilena.
Ilena’s thoughts on the direct listing are as clear as the glass on the John Hancock Tower outside the penthouse’s windows
and just as faulty. Her threatening to leave AIM led Mallory here, wondering if she had angry sex with Grayson after attempting
to blackmail him at the outing.
Blackmail, like out of some B movie. But worse because Mallory only had a ghostly tendril of proof: snippets overheard a little
over a month ago at his penthouse, the day she’d discovered the computer error. Though not entirely conclusive, it was damning
enough to suggest that Grayson had created the error—on purpose—to make AIM appear even more successful than it already was.
She needed more time to investigate, to fully understand what she’d heard, but Ilena’s ultimatum had forced Mallory to play
her empty hand. When she’d confronted Grayson at yesterday’s outing, trying to force him to admit he was involved in creating
the error, he’d turned the tables on her. In that moment, she’d never hated anyone as much, not even her pissant of a father.
A ding, not for another voicemail but a text.
Ilena: We’re at your condo.
Shit.
Mallory turns to Grayson’s living room. She’s been secretly sleeping with Grayson for the past year. Not even Ilena knows.
Mallory texts back: Running late. Don’t wait for me. See you at the office.
But it crosses with Ilena’s: We’re letting ourselves in.
Shit, shit, shit.
One of Ilena’s lectures, Mallory could handle, her best friend’s judgmental nature nothing new. But Ilena’s disappointment . . .
that’s another thing entirely.
Mallory returns her phone to the bag and takes in the great room that, like the hallway and bedroom, has the same unfathomable
Grayson Version 2.0 update. Air plants hang from the ceiling over a rainbow of floor cushions and a diffuser spewing lavender-eucalyptus
mist straight out of one of AIM’s meditation corner how-tos. But Grayson has never actually used the AIM app. That should
have been her first clue that he doesn’t believe in it. Or in her.
“Grayson?” she calls out to no response, though the flatscreen is on, muted, tuned to the same morning show her mom used to
watch—probably still does—her mother’s loyalty unwavering through anchors having oral sex with interns and pontificating on
the uniforms of female athletes.
Mallory is staring at the somehow both puffed and skeletal face of the female anchor Shandy Shane, feeling good about her
own decision to steer clear of fillers and Botox, when a blocky, distorted version of the AIM logo flashes on the screen.
Panic gathers in Mallory’s chest like a funnel cloud. She spies the remote on the side table and lunges for it, jamming her
finger on the button to unmute.
“AIM Higher, they said, and, my, are they! And now you can too. Everyone’s favorite wellness app is opening its shares to the public next week. Already
a fan fave in the health and wellness space, AIM went wider and higher last year with its newest and buzziest feature, ‘How Wide’s My
Smile.’ Curl up with a book instead of your earbuds? Ten points! Bubble bath instead of doomscrolling? Fifteen points! What’s more all-American than your pursuit of happiness getting a seal of approval from your virtual friends?”
“Research, coaching—it’s not only about the points!” Mallory can’t help but shout.
“Speaking of friends, eight-year-old AIM isn’t the first company founded and led solely by women to debut on Wall Street,
but its valuation shatters records as the highest for any company in its sector to date. In this world where the tech bubble
is going pop, pop, pop with every massive layoff and embezzlement scandal, that’s a feat worth a heck of a lot of points! Hahahaha!”
Mallory’s hands clench.
“But seriously, all eyes are on AIM, partly thanks to its crafty decision to opt for the less traditional direct listing rather
than straight IPO. In just one week, the company will be selling shares to the public without the assistance of intermediaries—a
high-risk, high-reward gamble that just might pay off. In fact, with four million subscribers and counting, industry insiders
expect records to be made. And when they are, this is the place you want to be. We’ve just gotten word that one of the three
smart, savvy, sparkling besties behind AIM will be here next week. How wide’s our smile to be sitting down with CEO Mallory Latham and Chairman of AIM’s Board of Directors Grayson Fields!”
Holy.
Shit.
“Grayson!” Mallory cries out, her heart thrumming. That PR firm they hired nailed it. AIM on The Shandy Shane Show!
She rushes to the tote and roots around past her empty emergency snack bag and makeup case and reclaims her phone. This must
be why Ilena was calling. She mutes the television and is about to hit Ilena’s number. They have to celebrate this—AIM is
going to be on morning television!
But it’s not AIM. It’s not Ilena and Aubrey. It’s only Mallory. And Grayson. Why Grayson? Everything inside her seizes. Now the changes in the apartment make sense. B-roll footage.
He’s preparing for it. Which means, he arranged it. To let her know what he’s capable of, maybe even to prove in his warped
mind how much she and AIM need him. But Grayson Fields doesn’t do anything for anyone but Grayson Fields.
Bastard.
Then again . . . she and Grayson would be on national television, discussing AIM at the time when every fund manager and investor was watching.
Buzz, exactly what they needed. She’d always believed the press around going public would increase their user base. Something
necessary now more than ever. It was the perfect domino effect: buzz would lead to more users, which would lead to the high
stock valuation being entirely accurate. After they went public, they could fix the computer error, end and eliminate the
fake replicating accounts, and have an entirely honest user base, no one the wiser. No need, then, for Mallory to tell Ilena
her suspicions about Grayson being behind it all.
Mallory still believed in that course of action. And what better buzz could there be than Shandy Shane? The show could solve
everything.
And yet, odds are, Ilena won’t see it that way. She won’t want to take the risk.
Mallory pockets her phone. She needs coffee if she’s going to take on Ilena.
And then it’s time to schedule appointments for hair and nails, and she should probably get a new suit and maybe shoes, definitely a pair of summer heels, and a bra, this one feels scratchy with more sag than usual.
Mallory moves toward the kitchen, confused by the black granite countertop and coffee machine that looks like it was invented by NASA.
Though that’s a worthy upgrade since her last visit.
She circles the island to retrieve one of the Simon Pearce mugs, and her foot hits something hard.
She looks down to see a thousand-dollar loafer.
“Grayson?” she says more softly, coming around the island. “Gray—”
He’s on the floor, right leg bent at an unnatural angle, body still, eyes open, opaque, and not moving. Not moving.
She should drop to her knees, press her fingers to his neck, trying for a pulse like they do in the movies, but she has no
idea where to actually put her fingers, and even if she knew where to put her fingers, how could she put her fingers on him
when he’s a greenish, grayish blue? He’s blue.
Grayson Fields is dead.