Chapter 39
IVY
The day kicks off with the promise of something good. “Let’s go out for brunch, sleepyhead.” Soren smiles at me, his finger trailing across my jaw when I open my eyes, keeping me there.
He’s been watching me again, his mouth curving slightly as his eyes meet mine.
I stretch, squeezing my eyes closed before looking at him again.
There’s an air of expectation around him, like he’s a little antsy. Keen to get moving.
I smirk. “Were you waiting for me to wake up? You’re like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“Can’t help it if I’m eager to spend the morning with my favorite person.” He grins, and it makes my stomach flutter. “Is that a problem?”
God, he can be charming when he wants to be.
He jumps up and heads toward the door, looking over his shoulder. “Get ready. Let’s go.”
I pull the sheet down, and his eyes immediately trail across my body. “Unless you want to stay here instead,” he says, his eyes darkening.
I laugh softly. “I’m actually really hungry, now that you mention it.”
“So am I,” his voice deepens as he gazes at my core.
I smooth my pajama shorts down. “Stop!” I blush. “Let’s go eat—brunch—and then see what the day brings.”
I head to the bathroom, shower and get ready. My outfit is casual but feminine, a green romper that looks more like a dress, with tiny white flowers and thin spaghetti straps. A temporary departure from my usual black and gray.
Brunch is casual, leisurely. We’re at a cute spot about a ten-minute drive from Soren’s apartment. It’s indoor-outdoor, and we’ve chosen a table outside in the open space lined with a variety of plants.
The atmosphere is lively, with lots of people walking by on their way to and from the nearby weekend market, produce and baguettes poking out from their recyclable bags. Dogs bark, and children laugh in the distance.
I sip my coffee, savoring the deep roast as a gentle breeze cools my skin. “This place is great,” I say. “The coffee’s amazing.”
Soren smiles, pleased. “I knew you’d like it. I chose it for you.”
My thoughts roam, and I frown as I recall the brief anonymous message that came in earlier. I should tell Soren.
If it is my ex, I don’t think he’s actually watching me. There’s no way that Soren’s security wouldn’t flag it.
But he’s enough of a psycho to be able to guess my mannerisms. Or someone is.
I sigh, wishing my ex would just vanish from my life—that he wasn’t able to continue ruining my brightest moments even from the inside of a prison cell.
As I brace myself for the conversation, my work phone starts dinging. A couple of times at first, but then a persistent stream of incoming messages.
That’s weird. I don’t usually get many work messages on the weekend unless there’s some kind of crisis. PR is definitely a 24/7 business, but because most of my content is pre-programmed, I’m not usually putting out fires unless something really bad happens.
“Sorry,” I say, pressing my lips together and furrowing my brow as I dig in my purse, retrieving the phone.
My eyes grow wide.
Client:
Ivy. We need to talk.
Another client:
Ivy. When is our contract up?
A third client:
Ivy. This isn’t working.
What the fuck is going on?
“Hang on a second,” I say, flustered. “I’m sorry, I need to make a call.”
I step away from the table, not wanting to disrupt the relaxed patrons sitting around us, and move just outside the café’s entrance.
I call one of the clients who texted me—Reina. She’s been with me from the start, and would never send me a message like this.
At least, she normally wouldn’t—but I guess she just did.
“Reina—what’s going on?”
“I don’t think this is going to work, Ivy,” she says, her voice strained. “I don’t think you are… compatible with our brand any longer.”
“What are you talking about?”
There’s a pause, and an inhale on the other end. “Sometimes we make choices that come back to bite us,” she sighs. “I guess your time is now. I—I’m sorry.” She hangs up and, despite the flurry of activity around me, the silence closes in on the other end. Final.
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it, as if it will somehow give me answers.
Quickly, I open the browser and tap in my name. Because this is all just bizarre. I need to know what’s happening.
When the results appear, my stomach lurches.
Social media post after social media post begins to appear.
Social PR agent supports known sexual predator.
Social media expert canceled for supporting sexist comedian.
PR maven Ivy Thorn enthusiastically endorses known sex pest.
Ivy Thorn CANCELLED for supporting depraved sex scandal. Read more HERE!!!
What the hell?
I check my DMs and gasp. Nasty messages flood in. Some of them threats.
Pedo lover.
Rapist apologizer.
Die, you sick bitch. I’m coming for you.
Finally, I land on something that sheds a little more light. A little more concrete than the alarmist headlines that are so out of kilter with reality they provide no insight at all.
My stomach sinks.
Six years ago, I apparently liked a comedian’s post.
It was something that was probably funny back then, but maybe not as appropriate now.
My gut churns more, acid bubbling as I continue to scroll.
Oh no, I reposted it and added a comment doubling down.
Great show with Matt Smith last night.
There’s a picture of me posing with him, grinning from ear to ear, his arm wrapped tightly around my waist like we’re best buds.
Matt Smith.
The latest comedian to get canceled. Apparently, he had a history of harassing underage girls and pressuring them to sleep with him, leveraging his public persona and celebrity status to lure innocent young women into his bed.
I’d read a few of the articles, and wondered how someone in the public eye would behave like that without expecting to be held accountable at some point in the future.
Fuck.
Of course I had no idea at the time I’d made that post.
Not to mention, I’d long forgot that the post even existed. It was so long ago, and such a throwaway evening, I forgot I’d ever even been to one of his shows or—god forbid—posed with a predator.
I slink back to the table, head down, and plonk myself down on the seat. For a moment, I squeeze my eyes closed, willing this to all be nothing more than a bad dream. Or a misunderstanding that can easily be put right.
“What’s going on?” Soren’s face is concerned, his hand reaching out to meet mine.
“I—I guess now I know what it feels like to be canceled.”
I tell him everything.
He frowns. “That’s so unfair. You were targeted. This shouldn’t be a big deal. Someone wanted this.”
He’s right. Someone really had to go searching for this.
And then they had to get a mob behind it, stirring it up and blowing it out of proportion.
This does seem targeted. Like someone was intentionally digging up the most benign ‘dirt’ on me and making it into something way bigger than it should have been.
Which is cruel, but also not unheard of.
Because the truth doesn’t matter on the internet.
A speck of dust can be called smoke and then made into fire.
As for Matt Smith, I would happily never watch that comedian again. In fact, I haven’t for years. After finding out what he’d done to these young women, there’s no way I would go to see one of his shows, let alone endorse him.
But I guess that’s not really the point. The internet has a way of twisting context. Of taking things out of the time in which they occurred and measuring you against the yardstick of today.
I push my plate away, my appetite well and truly gone. The once-delicious coffee now tasting bitter and caustic in my throat.
Soren pays, and he holds my hand once we stand, guiding me out of the restaurant.
I walk slowly, a little further behind, as if I’m on my way to the gallows for my reckoning.
We drive home in silence, me letting out the odd sigh and shaking my head. Soren glances at me during the drive, his hand never leaving mine, his grip steady.
If he wasn’t holding me I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t want to find out. His touch the only thing holding me together right now.
Later, back at the apartment, I reply to all my clients, one by one, trying desperately to explain myself. Begging them to reconsider in the circumstances. Surely, at least a few of them will understand that this is just one big misunderstanding.
But to no avail. Nobody will budge.
“It’s best we distance ourselves from you at this time.”
“Thank you for your support to date, Ivy, but we think it’s better if we’re no longer affiliated.”
The message is clear—I’m done.
I’m devastated. Crushed.
I’ve put countless hours, weeks, months, years into this business, building it up from scratch and establishing a strong reputation amongst my clients for the best quality of social media support.
They’ve trusted my strategy, being on the cutting edge of new trends. And they know I deliver what I promise—a reliable social media manager—which can be hard to find in this business.
I sigh.
Goddamn fucking trolls.
Someone did this.
I wish I’d gone back through and scrubbed my social media. I do, regularly, just in case. Because in this day and age you can’t be too careful. But I guess I missed this one post, lurking on a platform long since forgotten.
And the internet stays. With time, it twists. Time itself twists, too. What was relevant—of the moment, totally innocent—ages and becomes something ugly.
Information emerges about people with whom you once associated, that you would absolutely never condone in a million years—even had it come to light back then.
But the timing doesn’t matter—it’s presented as if they are present-day BFFs, the photos of you together circulating as if they had just been snapped.
I sigh. This is futile.
It’s not something I planned for. And certainly not something I can hope to just bounce back from.
Well, I guess it’s back to the drawing board with my entire career.
Maybe I can provide anonymous support, get some low-key contract work on one of those freelancer apps.
But even if I can bounce back from this at some point, it won’t be any time soon. We’re talking years at minimum.
I throw my phone onto the couch in frustration and it bounces on the plush cushion and crashes onto the floor where it skitters along, finally settling at the base of a potted plant.
Tears slide down my cheeks. Slow and silent at first, but then turning into loud, wracking sobs.
There’s no fixing this.
Everything I worked so hard for, down the drain over something so stupid.
“Hey,” Soren says, his voice soft as he comes and sits beside me, wrapping an arm around me and squeezing my shoulder.
He wipes my tears away with the back of his hand, his eyes boring into mine.
“It’s going to be okay, Ivy. Don’t worry about money.
I’ve got you. You don’t need anyone else.
We’ll figure this situation out together. I’ll handle it.”
His reassurance and lack of judgment carry me through.
He’s the constant when everything else feels like it’s swirling around me. Like I’m standing in an amusement park ride in slow motion watching lights spin and people screaming. It’s dizzying, but he’s my anchor, holding me firm.
My sobs finally abate, and I walk to the bathroom to dry my eyes.
I look in the mirror, at the shadows that mar my face, wondering how the fuck I got here.
Wondering what bad deeds I did in my past. Who I’ve made hate me enough to cause this vindictive character assassination.
Because it must have been something really fucking bad.
Thank god for Soren and his unwavering support.
I don’t know what I’d do without him.