Chapter Eighteen Lila
Kate Branson closes the conference room door with the same kind of finality of someone sealing a coffin. The click echoes ominously.
I’m alone in here with her, but it’s not like I’m scared or anything. Respectfully intimidated is probably a better phrase.
She takes a seat across from me, her back straight, hands folded, and expression neutral. I’m trying my best not to use the nickname that the station has secretly given her, but she really does look like a hawk right now, hunting for her next meal.
“Ms. Hart,” she begins.
“Please, just call me Lila,” I remind her.
Her lips purse with obvious disapproval, but the union rep certainly knows how to pick her battles, so she responds with a simple, “Lila, then. As you know, we have much to talk about.”
I sit up a little straighter. “Yes, that’s exactly why I requested this meeting. I had a feeling you’d be wanting to discuss the situation with me.”
“The situation, meaning the livestream incident.”
“Yes, that one.” It’s been two days of pure bedlam, but I didn’t go into PR because I’m a wuss who doesn’t know how to handle tricky situations. Quite the opposite. “It’s been handled.”
“Handled,” Branson repeats, leaning back in her chair. “Elaborate on that.”
How does she do it? How does she manage to look so classy and feminine, yet incredibly frightening at the same time? God, I’d like to be her when I grow up.
“Noah’s public apology has already been posted to all online channels.
Furthermore, Sandy and Clara, the firefighters who were in the engine with them when he was prepping for the stunt, also insisted on posting their own apologies for not taking enough responsibility to identify the potential problem and intervening appropriately. ”
“Right.”
The tone of her voice suggests that I should keep talking, so I do.
“We also got lucky because the father of the child that Noah rescued has also gone public on his personal social media accounts, defending Noah and arguing that he’s more than happy to have had this moment shared with the world so that everyone can see just how brave the FDNY is. ”
Branson nods slowly. “My assistant showed me this morning. I believe his exact phrasing was that we should ‘not be weaponizing a clumsy video to punish heroes.’ I suppose that goes along with your Save A Hero thing.”
She’s not smiling, nor does she look particularly pleased by the words coming out of her mouth, but I grin and nod.
“Absolutely. Also, the father is holding the puppy Noah saved in the videos, so that definitely helps to soothe the vitriol. I wouldn’t say we’re back on even ground, but public sentiment is definitely rebounding back to at least the center of the board.
Or whatever the correct metaphor is supposed to be. ”
“Crisis averted,” she muses. “Although, it’s a crisis that should not have happened in the first place.”
“That is the nature of most crises, right?”
Branson gives me a stern look. I try not to flinch.
“I’m glad progress has been made,” she relents. “However, that’s not the only thing I was hoping to discuss privately with you.”
“Oh! Sure.” Once again, my upbeat tone and persistent smile don’t manage to crack her shell, but I’m still holding out hope.
She adjusts in the chair, recrossing her legs. “It’s regarding the fraternization clause.”
It’s a miracle that the sudden spike of panic I feel doesn’t wipe the smile clean off my face. It’s barely been forty-eight hours since I spread my legs for Hale and then had sex with Noah all in the same day.
Thankfully, the aftermath of the livestream situation has kept me busy enough that I haven’t been able to overthink it, but that doesn’t mean I’m not carrying around a whole bucket of shame regarding the insane scenario.
“What about it?” I ask.
“It seems that the public has caught on to the fact that you’re temporarily staying on the mezzanine level.”
“I noticed that, too.” Just some comments here and there, nosy chronically-online types who dig way too deep into things.
It’s not a big deal, though. At least, not from what I’ve seen.
Branson sighs. “It’s generating quite a lot of attention.”
I attempt another winning smile. “That’s the point, no?”
“There’s a trending hashtag,” she remarks, ignoring my comment. “Who knew, in this day and age, that hashtags were still relevant?”
“What do you mean? I haven’t seen—”
“The phrase is #AllThree.”
My stomach does a nosedive, but I manage a weak laugh. “Pardon?”
“It seems that a growing percentage of viewers have latched onto your dynamic with the Save A Hero trio.”
I resist the urge to reach for my phone and search for confirmation myself. This is something Lou would have definitely picked up on and alerted me to, right? Except we’ve both been so consumed by the livestream cleanup…
All three… yeah, I wish.
No! No, you fucking don’t, I remind myself. Don’t be ridiculous.
“I’m glad I’ve been able to build a friendly rapport with the heroes and that it’s shone through on camera,” I state as professionally as possible. “That’s the goal, after all—to humanize Station 47 and guide the narrative back to the incredible work they accomplish every day.”
Branson’s frown only deepens. “Except instead of guiding the narrative toward that, it’s swinging around in the opposite direction into a romantic speculation circus. Obviously, that’s a problem.”
“Absolutely. One hundred percent.”
“I think you’re a smart woman, but I want to make sure I’m crystal clear. The union will not tolerate a scandal involving the captain, a paramedic, a rookie, and an independent contractor living under the same roof as them. The optics are—”
“Really bad,” I finish for her, just so she knows I’m on the same page. “Catastrophic. I know.”
“It doesn’t matter if nothing inappropriate has truly happened,” she continues. “If there is so much attention on the possibility that something might happen…”
“Nothing has happened,” I lie. “Absolutely nothing inappropriate at all.”
I hate lying. Especially to my fellow career women.
Kate Branson might be a bad omen at Station 47, but I can’t imagine it’s been easy for her to build her way up to such a powerful position in a male-dominated field.
Public relations has less gender disparity, but still.
The last thing I want to do is disappoint her.
It would feel too much like disappointing every other woman on earth.
Even if I fully and wholeheartedly consented to the kissing and the touching and the… everything else. Even if I was an enthusiastic participant in everything that’s happened between me, Hale, Noah, and Evan.
Even if, while I’m internally kicking myself for being such a reckless idiot, I can’t help feeling like I wouldn’t take any of it back.
Branson studies me for a long moment. If anyone is going to see right through my lies, it’s going to be her.
Eventually, though, she lets out an exhale and says, “I believe you, of course. But I want to discourage any further complications. You’re on firehouse property around the clock.
You’re a beautiful young women and they are handsome young men.
Even I can acknowledge that. These situations escalate quickly.
If this campaign leads to reputation-related or legal fallout, the union will have to take action.
And if your continued presence here further contributes to distractions from the actual goals—”
“Then we kill it,” I interrupt as firmly as I dare. “We cut the campaign short and switch strategies. I get it. Believe me, we’re on the same side.”
Branson shrugs and, on some invisible signal that I’m not privy to, pushes back from the table and stands. “I trust your judgment, Lila. For now.”
“I won’t let you down,” I promise.
But the fact of the matter is that I’ve already let her down. I’ve let everyone down, including myself.
And after a meeting like that, I desperately need some air.
Twenty minutes later, I let myself into Hartstrings PR’s tiny headquarters. Lou, who was already expecting me, glances up from her laptop at the long folding table we’ve been using as a double desk.
I mutter a greeting, then sink down into the creaky chair beside her.
“Well, I’m glad to see the Hawk didn’t eat you alive,” Lou chirps.
“She should have,” I grumble. “I’d deserve it.”
“Yes, woe is you. It’s so difficult being a twenty-eight-year-old bombshell with perfect tits and three insanely sexy men who want to eat your cookie.”
“Okay, ew? Don’t ever phrase it like that again.”
“I mean, I personally would hate to be in your position, given that I don’t like men, but that’s beside the point.”
I frown, then glance down at my chest. “Do you really think my tits are perfect?”
Lou snorts. “Focus, cupcake. What did Branson say?”
“She’s worried about fraternization.”
My best friend throws her head back with a mighty cackle. “Wise woman.”
“Lou!”
“Well, she’s obviously not wrong.” Lou shrugs. “And now we’ve got that pesky #AllThree thing going around.”
I sink down lower in the chair. “How is this happening? How did I manage to get myself into a love triangle like this?”
“Love square, technically. There’s four of you.”
“Lou.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I wanted a big career moment and I wanted to help people. I wanted to do something genuinely good.”
Lou sighs, her expression softening. “You are doing all of that, though. But you’re not made of stone, Lila. They’re good guys. It’s not hard to understand why you’d fall for them. Even the grumpy one.”
“I’ve just never juggled anything like this before. Usually, I struggle to get just one man to treat me like I’m worth anything at all.”
“That’s not your fault, though,” she assures me. “We’ve been through this, hon. You pick the wrong guys because you think love is supposed to be a challenge.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Blah, blah. Divorced parents. Workaholic father and emotionally absent mother. I’m pathologically wired to feel like I have to earn love. Tale as old as time; it really doesn’t make me special or give me a real excuse here.”
“I’m just saying, Lila. For the first time, you’re being chosen. You didn’t actively seek them out in a romantic sense.” Lou drums her fingers thoughtfully on the desk. “Not to mention, from what you’ve said, they’ve made it clear that they think you should be an obvious choice. For all of them.”
Indeed, Hale, Noah, and Evan seem to be in agreement that it makes perfect sense for all three of them to want me at the same time.
“But it doesn’t make sense at all,” I mutter. “I can’t have all of them. I can’t have any of them, actually.”
Lou’s lips part as if she’s going to offer a real solution, but then her laptop makes a little ping noise.
She glares at the screen. “What does that slimy little motherfucker have to say now…”
“What? Who?”
“I have Barry’s post notifications turned on…”
“You—”
“Bitch,” she whispers, followed by several other elegantly chosen expletives that I won’t repeat.
Instead of offering an explanation, she turns the screen toward me.
It appears the snake has finally slithered out of hiding.
Barry Pelavin @PelavinPRSolutions: This #AllThree trend has more truth to it than people realize. Lila Hart is clearly using her so-called “agency” as an excuse to sleep her way through the FDNY. Typical. Honestly, Station 47 deserves better.
“I smell a defamation lawsuit,” Lou growls.
But I’m speechless. Because all it takes is a few more scrolls to see the mess that has exploded underneath that single post. Likeminded, disgusting men who don’t even know me have leaped at the chance to call me a “firehouse groupie” and “phony slut.”
It’s just the algorithm, I try to tell myself. Bots and AI-generated nonsense. The website is designed to fuel flames and create spectacle in order to draw in traffic for ads.
But I can’t logic away the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Because, as horrible as Barry is, he’s right.