Chapter 17
I was reluctant to believe it in the first round, but Spencer truly is the star of the conference. So much so, I’m not bringing
“It’s kinda strange, really,” he laments as we walk to the auditorium for the start of Round Two. “You struggled to get attention
on Wyst for like two years, I go up onstage once and it’s all anyone can talk about.”
I try not to roll my eyes as I follow Spencer down the long beige corridor with Odericco Investments banners pointing us toward
an ornate conference center. The last thing he needs before he goes onstage is to be berated by me. Carved wood with gilt
ceilings would make you assume everyone will be dressed up as French aristocrats. Instead, rows and rows of Banana Republic
and Brooks Brothers are milling around in a battle of whose voice can at once be both the lowest and the loudest.
A couple of the men do a double take when they see Spencer, immediately ending their conversations and approaching him with feverish expressions.
“Hey, man, really great to meet you yesterday. I sent you a request on LinkedIn. It’d be great to connect,” one of the men
says, a hopeful look in his eyes.
Spencer and I freeze in unison.
“Hello, yes. Great, great.” Spencer nods way too many times.
As we walk away, Spencer plasters on a smile and says through his teeth, “I don’t have a LinkedIn profile.”
I’m not sure what scares me more, Spencer lying or telling the truth. Apparently, he was recognized multiple times yesterday,
and the other competitors were grilling him at breakfast. I know I should feel excited, but an inkling of dread looms like
an iceberg in the distance. What did he say to them and is any of it true?
My brow is already furrowed as I type in “Spencer Cole” to my app. “This smells of Cecily. I’ll find out.”
There he is; it’s all made up but looks legitimate. His fake degree, his fake work experience, interning at a made-up company,
then his creation of Wyst three years ago.
Two minutes later, I’m hiding in the corner behind a ficus, waiting for Cecily to pick up the phone. “Did you create a fake
LinkedIn for Spencer?”
“Guilty. Did you think your absolutely batshit crazy plan would work without a bit of Cecily magic? When you googled Spencer
Cole, it came up with a review article about his one-man show.”
I was so focused on hiding his profiles, I didn’t think about the social media profiles he doesn’t have. It never occurred to me he’d be such a hit at the conference that people would be actively googling him, not just Wyst.
My stomach drops. “Oh no, the one where he talks about the childhood trauma of playing Bill Sikes in the school play and peeing
his pants onstage when everyone booed him?”
“No, the one where he gender swaps Fleabag to make it about his sexual awakening in London.”
“Oh no . . . not Dickbag.”
“Dickbag,” she confirms solemnly.
“It was really good to be fair,” I say on a shrug.
“Yeah, I’m sad I missed it; in the article the critic gave it four stars.”
My shoulders deflate. “But I’m glad nobody here saw that. You are a genius, thank you.”
“No worries. I know you’re under a lot of pressure right now and didn’t want to stress you out with another thing to do.”
I shower her with appreciation, feeling quite sheepish that I didn’t think of covering those tracks myself.
When I hang up the call, I immediately search Spencer’s name, then Wyst. The feeling of relief is laced with something I can’t
quite put into words. Something cold and sharp digging into my side. I’ve locked the safe and forgotten the code. Spencer
is now all over my Wyst. An infestation that I invited in. I know better than most, once something is out there, once it’s
been smeared everywhere, it’s near impossible to scrub it clean. But now the story has been rewritten. Wyst was launched and
created by Spencer Cole.
Maybe it’s a weight taken off my shoulders that my life is no longer attached to this thing that has felt like a phantom limb for years.
But what am I without Wyst? Just a girl who had a horrible thing happen to her, and she did nothing about it.
She created a company, a concept, the bare bones of a thing, and could do nothing with it until someone more talented and better suited came along.
Someone who everyone always loved more, listened to more, commanded the attention of a room like she never could.
But I put Spencer here. I asked him to do this.
How can I complain about him for doing a good job?
“Spencer!” The booming voice of Dominic Odericco penetrates me to my core as we enter the sparse backstage area. It’s not
the bustling hub it was during Round One. As the competition becomes more serious, the company teams aren’t meant to be back
here during Round Two. I’m purely here to give Spencer a final talking-to before finding my seat. When we realized there was
no chance of us getting away with our Freaky Friday plan this time, I wasn’t too aghast, since he doesn’t seem to want to follow my lead anyway. My pulse ratchets up when Spencer
immediately paces toward Dominic.
“Hey, how are ya?” Spencer is so laid-back, whereas my shoulders are up to my ears.
Spencer turns his body in line with mine, leaning in to introduce me. “This is my assistant, Violet.”
The urge to impress Dominic curdles inside me, the desire to sideswipe Spencer and declare, “I’m actually the brains behind
this operation.” But I think about what Oliver said at the pool: Do I want Wyst to succeed? Or do I want credit for it succeeding?
I smile and lean forward to shake his hand, my palm just touching Dominic’s when Spencer continues, “She was just about to
get me a coffee. Can she get you anything?”
I blink, trying to keep the shock off my face. Blood stains my cheeks as I meet Dominic’s piercing emotionless gaze.
“I’m good, thank you. My team is already on it.” He shoots me a tight smile.
Swallowing my pride like a gumball, I return the smile.
“I’d love a latte before we start.” Spencer gestures with his eyes in the direction of the door, clearly trying his best to
be polite while also telling me to fuck off. When I match his forced smile, I pivot on my heel in a robotic fashion and, once
out of sight, stomp over to the coffee bar.
The metal cylinder is letting out a steady flow of steam. I squeeze in between the other assistants to make Spencer the worst
coffee he’s ever tasted.
Five pumps of Irish cream–flavored syrup, check. I know he hates that after we stole a bottle of Baileys from the fridge at
Christmas when we were fourteen and drank the entire thing in our bedroom. Spencer proceeded to throw up at the dinner table,
all over his roast dinner.
Almond milk, he pretends to like it around his artiste friends but has an unusual disdain for the stuff so check.
Three sachets of artificial sweetener just to take it over the edge, check.
When I return, he’s still standing close and chatting away like old chums with Dominic, lifting on the balls of his feet to
say something into Dominic’s ear. It’s the first time I’ve seen the usually stoic man smile in real life. He looks at the
floor as he laughs; his teeth are perfect, straight, and white without looking like veneers. What would Spencer have said
to get him to laugh like that?
I hand the coffee over to my hilarious boss and watch as he takes a sip, trying to hide his obvious revulsion for the drink. I smile politely, “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you,” he replies, his voice thicker than usual. He hands the cup back to me, the coffee spilling a
patch onto my shirt.
I leave the backstage area once the main lights start to dim; now that the competition has heated up it’s “essential personnel
only.” The auditorium is packed, with even more people attending than the first round. Meandering down through the aisle,
I finally spot an empty seat right at the back, the rest of the row in shadow. As I get closer, I catch sight of Oliver sitting
in the seat next to it.
I step forward, then hesitate. Turning around and then back to him as I look for any other seats at the back. Turning back,
I find Oliver staring right at me, a bemused look on his face.
“Stop being weird and sit down,” he says quietly with a furrowed brow, holding his hand out to the empty seat. He glances
at my outfit as I sit.
“I spilled coffee on my shirt,” I lie, cracking open my water bottle and taking a swig only for something to do with my hands.
“Seems like that’s a habit of yours,” he says, not looking away. His jaw is shadowed by the dimming auditorium lights. I watch
his throat bob as his lips curve an imperceptible amount.
After a few seconds, Oliver’s scent reaches me. The peppery smell magnetizes me toward him, a feeling I actively have to fight.
Focus on Spencer.
I read my brother the riot act this morning as we were getting ready, including a list of things he specifically wasn’t allowed to say, plus a revised, more realistic version of his outrageous Round One pitch.
My anxiety is as high as it was then. I trust that Spencer is going to do a good job; he can speak eloquently and command the stage, but ultimately I have no control of him.
That fear combined with sitting next to Oliver’s magnetic presence makes my brain feel like it’s on a spit roast rotating over a campfire.
“Seems like these things only happen when you’re around,” I parrot, roll my eyes, and sink into the chair. Our arms brush,
causing a thrill to jolt up my back. I take a sip of my normal cup, trying to reduce the heat swirling in my stomach.
He relaxes into his chair. “Awww, that’s sweet. You get distracted and clumsy around me; it’s understandable to lose executive
functions when you’re turned on.”
I cough on my coffee, the spluttering drawing the attention of several people around us.
He pats me on the back as I lean forward, glancing around at the eyeballs on us. “She’s fine, just excited to see Dominic.”