Chapter 26
Lila
Forcing a cheerful tone, I reached for the receiver. “Good morning, Samantha Grace Interiors, how may I help you?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Lila Prescott,” a gruff voice replied, papers rustling in the background.
I hesitated. “I’m sorry, who’s calling?”
“Jack Thompson from Sports Scoop. Can you comment on the project you did for Mason Callahan?”
“I… what?” My chest went tight so fast it stole my next breath. Cold dread seeped in. How could he possibly know I’d done that project?
“How much input did Mr. Callahan contribute to the design choices? Was he heavily involved?”
“No comment.” I dropped the receiver like it burned me.
I was still trying to make sense of it when the phone rang again, sharp enough to make me flinch. Had he called back, or was this someone new? Anxiety crept higher, prickling under my skin.
I picked up, the brightness gone from my voice. “Samantha Grace Interiors.”
“I’m calling from the Miami Morning Herald,” a woman said, clipped and professional. “Is this Lila Prescott?”
My mouth went dry. Saying yes felt like stepping into traffic. “I’m sorry. Lila’s not in at the moment. May I take a message?”
A pause. “When will she be available? This story is moving quickly, and we’d like to get her comments on the photos of Mr. Callahan’s bedroom.”
“I’m not sure when she’ll be back. If you’d like to leave a message, I’ll make sure she gets it.” My tone stayed even, but my fingers were already numb. I jotted down the reporter’s name and number, my handwriting barely legible.
The phone started up again, insistent. My hand hovered over the receiver, trembling. I should let it go to voicemail. But what if it was an actual client? Or Sam checking in?
I snatched the receiver. “Samantha Grace Interiors.”
“Lila Prescott?” A different caller, male this time, with the rapid-fire pace of someone on deadline.
“She’s not available,” I repeated, colder now.
“This is Ryan from Celebrity Insider. We’ve seen the photos of the sex dungeon you designed for hockey star Mason Callahan and—”
I almost dropped the receiver. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“The sex dungeon. Look, we just want your side before we run with—”
“Samantha Grace Interiors has a strict confidentiality policy regarding all clients.” Panic was making my voice rise. “We don’t discuss our projects with the media.”
I slammed the phone down, breathing too fast, too shallow. My hands were shaking for real now.
It rang again, but this time I backed away from the desk as if the thing might bite.
Celebrity Insider? Sports Scoop? The Morning Herald? How did they all get my name?
Sam had already blacklisted the installer who’d leaked the bedroom photos, but what if that hadn’t been the end of it? What if he’d given them my name, as payback?
The bell above the door jingled, and Marlowe sauntered in, thumbs flying over her phone. Her chunky platform boots clomped across the hardwood as she adjusted her oversized vintage denim jacket without looking up.
“Sorry I’m late,” she announced without a trace of actual regret. “Traffic was insane, and—” She finally glanced up, then stopped short when she saw me behind the reception desk.
“Lila, you’re answering the phone now? Did Sam finally fire me?” she joked, tucking her phone into her back pocket.
The phone rang again.
“Don’t answer that,” I snapped.
“Okaaay.” Marlowe dropped her massive tote bag onto her desk and lifted her brows. “Who lit your hair on fire?”
I dragged in a breath, trying to regain composure. “Sorry. Some reporters are hassling us about one of our clients. They’re fishing for gossip, and I’m not violating client confidentiality.”
“Ooh, scandal.” Her eyes lit with interest. “Who’s the celeb? What’s the dirt?”
I waved her off, queasiness rising fast. “Just don’t pick up. Let everything go to voicemail.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to her desk, which looked more like a social media altar than a workspace. I smoothed my silk blouse and headed back to mine, trying to convince my body we were not, in fact, under attack.
Another ring knifed through the room.
Marlowe looked over at me, one eyebrow cocked.
I shook my head. “Is there a way we can send it straight to voicemail? It’s been ringing non-stop all morning.” The relentless sound was pushing my stress levels to a breaking point.
She shrugged, her disinterest only fueling my frustration. “I don’t know how to work these ancient phones.”
Seconds later, she let out a low whistle.
“Oh shit. Uh, Lila? You might want to check out our Yelp reviews...”
“What now?” I asked, bracing myself.
“We’re getting slammed online.” She stared at her screen. “All these one-star reviews. They’re saying we designed some kind of... sex dungeon?” Her nose wrinkled in confusion.
My pulse kicked up hard. The air felt tighter, thinner. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and the sound landed right on my nerves.
I gripped the edge of my desk. Marlowe didn’t notice.
“Oh. My. God. Lila, you have to hear this.” Her eyes stayed locked on her monitor. “Someone’s saying we turned a bedroom into a ‘den of iniquity’. Who even talks like that?”
My stomach pitched. “Marlowe, please don’t—”
But she was already reading aloud. “‘Samantha Grace Interiors? More like Samantha Disgrace!’” She made a choking noise like she was trying not to laugh. “Oh, this one’s good: ‘Disgusting company promoting deviant behavior!’”
Bile burned up the back of my throat. I needed out. Away from the ringing, away from her running commentary, away from the words piling up on the screen like a public shaming.
“Listen to this comment,” Marlowe continued, still scrolling. “‘Hired them to design my kid’s nursery... should I be worried?’” She snorted with amusement.
“And this one just says, ‘Ewwwww,’ with a bunch of vomit emojis.” Her voice faltered as she finally looked at me. “Lila, are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I buried my face in my hands, willing the floor to open up and take me with it. The careful life I’d built. The anonymity. The distance from cameras and comment sections. It all felt paper-thin.
The phone finally stopped ringing for a few merciful minutes, and Marlowe stopped reading.
“Oh my God!” She slapped her hand on the desk, snapping me out of my spiral. “Is THIS it?”
“What?” The word came out as a strangled gasp as I lifted my head.
Her eyes gleamed as she swiped through something on her phone. “Is this about the hockey player? The one with the bulge? Because my TikTok feed has been blowing up with… oh shit.” She blinked hard. “It’s you.”
“What is? Tell me, Marlowe.” Dread crept up my spine.
“It’s everywhere.” She sounded impressed despite herself. “You designed the sex dungeon, didn’t you? Damn, Lila. I didn’t know you had it in you. It’s actually kind of badass. They’re calling you ‘the dominatrix decorator’ on Twitter.”
The room started to spin. They were already labeling me, judging me, just like before. First Epic Fail Girl, now the dominatrix decorator. I’d spent years building a new identity, carefully curating a professional image, and now it was all sliding out from under me.
The bell above the door jingled, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. A man in a rumpled suit barged in, clutching a notepad. “I’m looking for Lila Prescott.”
I froze, my nerves snapping like live wires. Marlowe looked from me to the reporter, then stepped in with surprising professionalism. “Ms. Prescott isn’t in today, and Samantha Grace Interiors doesn’t discuss client projects with the media. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“We just have a few questions about her unique design approach.”
“This is private property. You need to go, or I’m calling building security.”
As Marlowe ushered the protesting reporter out, I slipped into the bathroom and leaned against the cool tile wall. They weren’t just calling. They were showing up. Here. The air felt heavy, like it didn’t want to reach my lungs.
But my body already knew the drill. Find a door. Lock it. Breathe.
Marlowe knocked on the door. “Coast is clear. You okay in there?”
I splashed cold water on my face, stalling. “Yeah. Just give me a minute.”
When I emerged, Marlowe stopped scrolling and looked at me with a mix of concern and fascination. “Okay, what the hell is really going on? Because you’re freaking out way more than this situation calls for.”
“You don’t understand,” I whispered. “This could ruin everything.”
“From what I can tell, you designed a super sexy bedroom for a hot hockey player. Some might call that a career highlight.”
I rubbed my forehead. All I could picture was the media digging into my past, unearthing the humiliation I’d tried so hard to bury. The Epic Fail video, resurrected for the world to mock all over again. “It’s not that simple. The press attention. I can’t have it. I just can’t.”
“Why not? I mean, Sam might be pissed about the confidentiality breach, but these comments.” She held up her phone. “Some people are actually loving it. They’re calling us edgy and innovative and saying, ‘I want her to design my bedroom ASAP.’”
I groaned. “Oh god. Sam. I’ve damaged her company. What is she going to think?”
Marlowe shrugged. “I don’t know, but my computer is blowing up with contact form submissions. They seem legit.”
For a second, relief flickered. Maybe this wouldn’t destroy the company.
Then it vanished, swallowed by the bigger fear. This wasn’t about Samantha Grace Interiors. This was about me.
If the press kept digging, how long until they linked Lila Prescott, the dominatrix decorator, to Delilah Prescott, the Epic Fail Girl?
After several hours of torture, pretending to work while ignoring the constant ring of the phone, I finally grabbed my bag. My body felt shaky with nerves and exhaustion. “I can’t do this,” I muttered, standing abruptly. “I have to go.”
Marlowe looked up, alarm replacing her earlier curiosity. “Lila, where are you going? You look like you’re about to hurl.”