Chapter 23 Jess
Jess
I’m elbow-deep in Ben’s hair products at six-thirty in the morning, trying very hard not to think about Marco’s mouth, when my phone buzzes with a text from Amara.
You need to see this.
Never a good opening line. Right up there with “we need to talk” and “I have concerns.”
The link takes me to a TikTok by someone named Marlowe Pennington. CityMama Unfiltered. Three hundred thousand followers. That specific brand of mommy-blogger aesthetic where everything looks effortless but you know she spent four hours getting the lighting right.
When you recognize your own former self and want to crawl into a hole.
The video opens on Marlowe’s perfectly highlighted face doing that fake-concerned expression that almost every influencer learns in their first month.
“Okay so I normally don’t do this,” she starts. Already a lie. This is exactly what she does. “But I’ve been seeing something around the school community that’s honestly concerning and I think we need to talk about it.”
Cut to a photo. Me and Ben at school pickup yesterday.
Oh God.
Someone snapped it from across the street. Ben’s face is blurred but mine isn’t. I’m crouched down doing the hand squeeze. Frederick is visible in Ben’s arms.
“So this is the new nanny for a certain very wealthy restaurant owner,” Marlowe continues.
Her tone is dripping with that weaponized concern a certain brand of influencers use when they’re about to absolutely destroy someone while pretending they’re just asking questions.
“And here’s the thing. She used to be a YouTuber.
Had a pretty decent following. Then her content stopped being relevant and she basically disappeared. ”
My face heats up. There it is. My failure laid out for public consumption.
She keeps going. “And now suddenly she’s working for one of Manhattan’s most eligible widowers. Living in his house. Taking care of his daughter. And I’m not saying anything but like, we’ve all seen this pattern before right?”
Cut to screenshots of tabloid headlines about influencers becoming paid escorts. Ending on a still about Instagram models getting flown out to Dubai to be literal human toilets for rich men.
When your new job gets compared to being shit on.
Fantastic.
Hitting some career goals here.
“I’m just saying,” Marlowe’s voice continues over the graphic, “we need to be careful about who we’re letting into our children’s spaces. Is this someone who’s here for the right reasons? Or is this someone who saw an opportunity and took it?”
The next slide shows the Range Rover. Jag holding the door. Marlowe’s added price tags to everything visible in the frame. The stroller. My bag. Ben’s school uniform.
“Forty-two hundred dollar stroller. Eighteen hundred dollar diaper bag. And that’s just what we can see.
So I’m asking the question nobody else wants to ask.
What’s the real arrangement here? Because this feels less like childcare and more like a different kind of transaction. If you know what I mean.”
The video ends with her signature sign-off. “Just asking questions, mama bears. Stay vigilant.”
I watch it three more times. Each viewing makes me more nauseous.
The comments are exactly what you’d expect. Half the people defending me without knowing me. Half piling on. Everyone speculating about whether I’m sleeping with Marco. Whether this is some kind of sugar daddy or escort situation. Whether I’m using Ben to secure a rich husband.
When strangers on the internet are ninety percent right and you can’t even defend yourself.
I set the phone down. Stare at my reflection in Ben’s bathroom mirror.
The worst part? I understand exactly what Marlowe’s doing. Because I used to do it, too. I was that brand of influencer myself.
I’m not proud if it.
I’d find a target. Frame it as concern. Let the algorithm do the rest. Farm engagement off other people’s pain and call it community service.
And when I stopped making that kind of content, my channels died.
I know, it’s hilarious, but social media companies actually reward this kind of behavior.
She’ll probably hit half a million followers by the end of the week.
And I’ll be the cautionary tale she built her empire on.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Marco.
You’ve seen the hit piece? Don’t engage. I’m handling it.
So of course he would have heard about it by now. Probably has entire teams scanning social media looking for specific keywords.
“Handling it.”
Right. Because nothing says “this isn’t what it looks like” than a billionaire mobilizing his legal team.
Three dots appear. Then another text.
Sabrina’s coming over. Don’t respond to anything. Don’t post. Don’t even like a comment. Total radio silence.
I stare at the text. He’s literally down the hall. Probably in his home office running damage control with Elena.
I could walk over there right now. Have this conversation face to face instead of through screens like a normal person.
Except that would require me to look him in the eye and pretend I’m fine.
And my face does this thing where it broadcasts every emotion in high definition.
Can’t hide anything. Especially not the sick feeling in my stomach or the fact that part of me wants him to march into this bathroom and tell me he’s going to burn Marlowe’s entire influencer empire to the ground.
When your boss is three rooms away and you’re having an emotional crisis in his daughter’s bathroom.
Peak professionalism right here.
I type back: Already wasn’t planning to.
Because what would I even comment on the video?
“Actually we did sleep together but there are rules now?”
“The contract specifically prohibits this but we violated it once and I can’t stop thinking about how he tastes? Okay twice if you count the kiss the other day...”
Yeah. That’ll clear things right up.
Ben appears in the doorway clutching Frederick. “Why do you look sad?”
I force a smile. “Just tired, sweetie. Come on. Let’s finish your hair.”
She climbs onto the stool. I work the product through her curls on autopilot while my brain spins out.
I manage to avoid Marco for the rest of the morning. Sabrina arrives at nine.
I’m still in Marco’s kitchen because Ben wanted to help Rosa make the conchiglie al burro and I needed to be somewhere that felt normal.
Sabrina sets her laptop on the island. No preamble. She goes straight into PR mode. “Okay. Here’s what we’re not doing. We’re not responding. We’re not issuing statements. We’re not feeding this.”
“She basically called me a prostitute,” I point out.
“She implied it. Didn’t say it directly. That’s the whole game.” Sabrina pulls up the video. Studies it with the clinical detachment of someone who’s seen this playbook a thousand times. “She’s farming engagement off parasocial concern. The second you engage, you validate the narrative.”
I fold my arms. “So I just let her keep posting about me?”
“You let her run out of content. Which she will. Fast.” Sabrina closes the laptop. “Trust me. I’ve handled worse than wannabe mommy bloggers.”
My phone buzzes. Filepe this time. A text in what seems to be the security group chat I didn’t know existed until now.
Noticed repeat plate at pickup yesterday and today. Silver Mazda CX-5. Logged and watching.
Then Luis: Adding to watchlist. Possible curb ambush.
“What’s a curb ambush?” I ask.
Sabrina’s expression goes flat. “Someone trying to catch you on camera. Get a reaction. A quote. Anything they can clip and monetize.”
When your existence becomes content for people who’ve never met you.
I nod slowly. “So what do I do?”
“You do exactly what you’ve been doing. Take care of Ben. Don’t give them anything. Let Marco’s team handle security. Let me handle messaging.” She stands. Packs her laptop. “And Jess? Don’t try to out-narrative this. You can’t win against someone who’s willing to destroy you for views.”
She leaves. I sit there processing.
My phone buzzes again. Amara this time.
Haven’t heard back from you. That video is defamatory. Want me to send a cease and desist?
I think about it. Type back: Not yet. Sabrina says radio silence.
Three dots. Then: Okay. But I’m drafting one anyway. Just in case.
The rest of the day passes in a blur. It’s Thursday, so I’m at school pickup without Marco. It goes fine. No silver Mazda that I can see but Jag positions the Range Rover differently. Protective triangle. Filepe does an extra sweep.
I get Ben home. Do homework. Make dinner. Run bath time. Read the Italian story Marco leaves on her nightstand.
Normal. Routine. Like my face isn’t currently being dissected by thousands of strangers who think they know exactly what kind of person I am.
When Ben’s asleep, I find Marco in his home office so I can give the mandatory debrief. He’s on his laptop. Probably reviewing damage control plans with Elena.
“Hey,” I say from the doorway.
He looks up. Those dark eyes land on me and I feel it. That pull. That want.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Been better.” I lean against the doorframe. “Sabrina says don’t engage.”
“She’s right.”
I smile wistfully. “I know she’s right. Doesn’t make it easier.”
He stands. Crosses to me but stops just short of touching. “I’m sorry this is happening.”
“Not your fault some influencer needs content,” I reply.
“It’s my fault you’re in this position at all,” he says firmly.
I want to argue. Want to tell him I made my own choices. But the truth is complicated and my brain is too tired to untangle it right now.
“Filepe thinks someone might try to ambush me outside,” I say instead.
“I know. We’re adjusting the protocol.” His jaw tightens. “No one’s getting near you or Ben.”
The protectiveness in his voice does something to my chest. Something warm and dangerous and absolutely not helpful right now.
“Okay,” I manage.
We stand there.
Too close.
Not close enough.
Then his phone goes off. Mine, too.
Both at the same time.
Luis in the group chat: Second vehicle flagged. Black sedan. Same pattern.
Filepe: Confirmed. Possible coordinated watch. Recommend advance-only pickups until pattern breaks.
Marco’s expression goes cold. Billionaire-security mode.
“Go home,” he says quietly. “Jag will take you. Tomorrow we adjust everything.”
I nod. Grab my bag. Head for the door.
But I pause in the hallway. Look back.
He’s standing in his office doorway. Watching me leave. That same tension in his shoulders that’s been there since the studio, and has only seemed to increase since the kiss.
And I realize with a sinking feeling that Marlowe’s video might actually be the least of our problems.