Chapter 30
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It’s the first time back at the London office since Malcolm accosted me outside. Pacha has been checking in, threatening to
actually murder Malcolm in a way that’s oddly comforting. He envelops me in a bear hug, his Paco Rabanne cologne a familiar
ease on my senses.
In an error of judgment, Wyst has misrepresented itself as a company while competing in TechRumble.
We cannot accept third place and will not accept the prize money.
We apologize to Odericco Investments, Dominic Odericco, and all our users.
Cecily scans the rest of the Word doc, cringing.
“You don’t like it?” I ask, sipping my coffee and trying to fight my rising defenses. “It’s just a draft.”
She sucks her teeth. “It’s too corporate. You need something less sterile.”
“But it’s a company statement?” I argue.
“Yes, but this”—she holds up the paper—“doesn’t reflect the values of the company.”
I purse my lips. “What do you think it should say?”
Her mouth turns into a soft smile. “I think if you want the users to understand what happened, it needs to come from you directly,
not ‘Wyst the Company,’ and you need to tell the truth.”
My stomach knots. “The whole truth?”
She nods. “And nothing but.”
I take a long calming breath. “Okay, do you still have your camera?”
Several hours later I’m sitting in bed at Cecily’s house. She’s preloaded me with tissues, ice cream, and Peanut M we agreed we shouldn’t put a label on things yet.
It’s not fair on either of us to put the pressure on right now, to define a relationship in the eye of the storm.
Plus, the bad press it could bring to Dominic on top of everything else feels like I’ve stabbed him in the back with multiple different knives.
Hey, I made a mockery of your competition, committed fraud, and am falling for your cousin slash personal assistant feels like too much news to deliver at once.
Lying low seems like the right thing to do. Still, I can’t help but miss Oliver’s
voice, his smell, his touch.
Cecily and I sit on the bed with gin and tonics in cotton pajamas as we stare at my glowing laptop screen. I fiddle with the
scalloped edges of a throw pillow resting between my crossed legs.
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asks, squeezing my leg. “We can postpone the video if you want? Give you a few more
days to process?”
“I’d love to.” I sigh, hugging my knees close to my chest. “But Malcolm isn’t exactly giving me a choice. If he wants to take
this public, then so be it.” This time I’m fighting fire with fire.
“True, it’s only fair to give him what he wants after you shish kebabed his foot.” She stifles a laugh and I follow suit.
As our laughter subsides, the heavy air returns.
“I might be about to blow everything up.” I cut a glance to her equally solemn face. “We could be out of a job in a few minutes.”
She looks at her watch. “It’s actually going live in forty-eight seconds so maybe less,” she says, having scheduled all the posts to go out on all social media platforms at the same horrendous time.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I close my eyes and rock back and forth, the bed creaking under my weight.
“Ten seconds,” she says as she grips my hand so tight it momentarily distracts from the pain about to come.
I tense for impact, as though I’m about to get blasted out of a rocket into the sun.
“It’s live,” Cecily says, refreshing all her open tabs to confirm. “Everywhere.”
She refreshes the video, automatically causing my voice to ring out of the laptop speakers:
“Hello. My name is Jess Cole and I am the founder of Wyst.
“Effective immediately, I am stepping down from my role as CEO. I also feel like I owe you all an explanation . . .”
Bashing my finger violently against the keyboard, I mute the video before I throw up. I’ve already heard all this and don’t
need to torture myself further. After debating what extent of the truth should be revealed, I decided to come clean about
everything. Even Malcolm. He was going to disrupt the terms of our NDA with his article anyway, and explaining to the world
what a piece of shit he truly is might be the one silver lining in this whole mess.
Quiet fills in the short space between us as I lie back and throw a decorative pillow over my head.
After a couple of minutes, I sit up, confused as to why the room hasn’t turned into a battlefield.
Why is there no one banging down my door like militant zombies looking for brains and internet justice?
It’s like it’s not real. It’s almost laughable; something that feels so huge in one arena has no impact on the air around you.
No change to the clock still ticking away on the wall.
The floor does not instantly begin to crumble and pull you down as far as you feel.
Maybe it’s a delayed reaction; a bulldozer is about to ram through the side of the house and crush us both.
“What’s happening?” I ask, wincing at her silence.
“Not much to be honest.” She refreshes again. “Oh, wait, never mind, it didn’t refresh. The video now has a thousand views
on YouTube, and we’ve lost a hundred followers on Instagram.”
My limbs go numb at her words. I should be shocked by how quickly it’s spread, but a scandal like this is just the kind of
delicious news misogynist keyboard warriors love to devour. This is a five-course Michelin star meal in female stupidity.
I nod my head and stick out my bottom lip in acceptance.
“But probably less damage than if this came from that dickweed,” she consoles. “It was the best thing to do.”
A tear escapes from the corner of my eye, but that’s the only one I’ll let out. There is a sick pleasure in the self-pity
of it all, but the grief of lost work is superseded by the betrayal of my former self. How could I do that to her? Take all
her pain and grief, her blood, sweat, and tears—just to throw in the towel.
“I just feel like I’ve let everyone down,” I admit.
She pouts and pulls me into a hug. “You’ve put so much into Wyst. So much so it took you to some dark places. You created
something good, but maybe now you can try and truly move on. Move forward.”
I squeeze her tighter.
After a few moments of silence, the doorbell rings and Cecily leaps up, running out of the room.
“What was that?” I shout, clutching a pillow as the worst-case scenario runs through my mind like a bullet train. The press has already found me? The police are here because Dominic is pressing charges? Malcolm coming to get his revenge for a plan foiled?
“It’s my present to you, for doing the right thing,” she shouts back, eventually reappearing, her face too giddy for someone
whose employment status is currently up in the air.
“Cec, you’ve done more than enough, I—” I stop my sentence as Oliver slips into the room, a sheepish but warm smile blistering
his face.
“I’ll be downstairs if you need anything, wearing large headphones.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me before disappearing.
Oliver scans me with soft eyes from the doorway. “Can I come in?”
A smile barges its way through the anxiety on to my lips. “What are you doing here? Wait, how did you know where I was?”
He steps into the room, the floorboards creaking under his feet. “Funny story. Now I know your real name, it’s much easier
to track you down. And Cecily stole your phone and found my number.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Apparently, I’m still in your phone
as ‘Olly Olly Olly, Oi Oi Oi’?”
My smile turns teasing. “I might need to change that . . . You shouldn’t be here; it’s a conflict of interest.”
“I know, but I bake when I’m stressed and I didn’t have anyone else to eat these with.” He pulls a box of cookies out from
behind his back. “I don’t have to stay if you’d rather be alone. I just wanted to check you were okay.”
My phone starts vibrating with text messages, social media notifications, and emails so violently it falls off the side table. I leave it on the floor, the rug muffling the buzzing sound.
“I’m kind of tired of feeling like I have to go through things alone,” I admit, patting the empty side of the bed for him
to join me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, sliding in next to me.
I sigh. “I’m okay. I’m relieved it’s over, to not have to keep up with my own story, you know?”
He wraps an arm around me, pulling me into his chest, his chocolate and peppercorn smell enveloping me like a duvet. I still
don’t know what we are, but I’m glad he’s here. I know what I want him to be; the words are practically bursting out of me.
I lift my chin to look up at his face. “How did Dominic take the news?” I pick off a piece of cookie and pop it into my mouth.
Buttery, nutty, and sweet with a hint of sea salt.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not sure.” His mouth twitches ever so slightly.
My eyebrows raise as I almost laugh. “Did it not come up at all?”
He bites his lip and studies the ceiling for a few seconds. “Not when I was quitting my job, no.”
I sit up to face him, my hands remaining on his chest. “You did what?”
“I quit.” He blinks at me.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, trying to process. “When?”