Chapter 22
Laurel
It’s been less than twenty-four hours, and I’m in hell. Not regular hell. Not waiting-at-the-DMV hell. Not accidentally-clicking-reply-all-on-a-company-email hell.
No.
This is personalized, curated, algorithm-fed hell.
The internet is a terrible place.
I remember now why I never check my social media.
Social media is not for people with anxiety, complicated morals, and a sudden starring role in someone else’s marital collapse.
Jenna’s post has gone viral, probably because her mother added fuel to the fire by going live and telling everyone how terrible Sin is. The comments on the video are vile.
Whoever the whore is who slept with him… shame on you.
I bet she’s ugly and a slut.
Poor Jenna. She deserves better.
That part I agree with. Jenna does deserve better. She deserved a husband who left before he touched someone else. She deserved the truth years ago. She deserved a clean ending instead of this public, messy, humiliating one.
And me?
I don’t know what I deserve. Probably not kindness. Definitely not the way Sin looked at me when I was sick, sitting on my couch with medicine bottles lined up on the coffee table like he could organize my fever into submission.
My phone rings, and I close out of the app before answering Tate’s call.
“Hello?”
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
I let out a small laugh. “Good, I guess. Just getting ready to head into the office.”
He hesitates.
“About that. We think it would be best if you take some time until this settles.”
My blood turns cold.
“If I don’t show up, people are going to know it’s me, Tate.”
“We’ve thought of that, which is why we’re going to say you’re in Amsterdam.”
I blink. “Amsterdam?”
“It makes sense. Post-show follow-ups, retailer meetings, international launch prep.”
“Right. Because nothing says innocent like fleeing the country.”
“Laurel.” His voice softens, and I hate it.
“I’m not being punished, right?” I ask.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“But I’m being told not to come to work.”
“You’re being protected.”
I close my eyes. That word. Protected. Everyone keeps saying it like protection doesn’t feel exactly like being the dirty part no one wants seen too clearly.
Tate sighs. “Sin wants me to give you the number of an attorney he trusts unless you already have someone.”
I let out a watery laugh. “No. Can’t say I keep an attorney on retainer for something like this.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is he there?”
A pause. “Yes.”
I grip the edge of my kitchen counter. “Did he ask to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
Another small, stupid fracture in my chest.
“And?”
“And Owen told him not to.”
Of course he did. Owen, the patron saint of policy violations.
“He’s right,” Tate says quietly. “I know that’s probably not what you want to hear.”
I swallow hard.
“What I want is irrelevant, apparently.”
“No.” His voice turns firm. “It isn’t. That’s why you need your own attorney. Someone who represents you, not Sin. Not the company. You.”
I press my palm to my forehead. The flu is gone, leaving behind a dull ache that I fear I’ll have to live with now. Guilt.
“Okay,” I whisper.
“I’m texting you her information. Her name is Mara Ellison. She’s independent. Employment law, corporate disputes, reputation management. She’s good.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Then Tate says, softer, “Laurel, stay off the internet.”
“Too late.”
“I figured.”
I say, “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
There is silence on his end. Then, “He’s losing his mind over there.”
My chest squeezes. “Don’t tell me that.”
“I know. Sorry.”
“Is everyone mad?”
“At him? Yes.”
“At me?”
Tate doesn’t answer fast enough. That tells me plenty.
“Right,” I say. “Cool. Love that.”
“No one has the full story.”
“They don’t need the full story to judge me.”
“No,” he says quietly. “They don’t.”
After we hang up, his text comes through.
Tate Sinclair
Mara Ellison
Ellison, Bray & Michael Attorneys at Law
312-215-0000
She can see you today at noon.
Seriously, stay offline.
I will. Thank you.
Naturally, I immediately check social media again because I am a woman of discipline and intelligence.
The video of Jenna’s mom has been clipped into pieces now.
People have added captions. Reaction videos.
Outrage stitches. One woman with perfect eyeliner is explaining why powerful men always prey on women at work, which is probably true in a broad sense but feels deeply unhelpful when I am the woman and my life is being discussed by strangers who think nuance is a type of French cheese.
I toss my phone onto the couch like it bit me.
Then I get dressed because if I sit here in pajamas, I will dissolve.
I choose black slacks, a gray sweater, and the kind of coat that says I am a professional adult woman attending a serious legal meeting and definitely did not cry while brushing my teeth.
My fever has settled into that annoying phase where I can function but every bone in my body has filed a complaint.
By eleven-thirty, I’m in a rideshare heading downtown with sunglasses on even though the sky is the color of wet cardboard.
People get coffee. Buses hiss at curbs. Someone walks a golden retriever in a tiny raincoat.
Life continues, apparently uninterested in the fact that mine is on fire.
Mara Ellison’s office is on the twenty-second floor of a building that smells like printer toner.
Her assistant offers me tea. Then Mara comes out herself.
She’s in her late forties, maybe early fifties, with dark hair cut sharp at her jaw and glasses that make her look like she has ended men professionally and enjoyed it.
“Laurel Cross?”
I stand. “Yes.”
“Mara Ellison.” Her handshake is firm, warm, and terrifying. Excellent.
She leads me into her office, closes the door, and gestures for me to sit.
“I understand you’re having a difficult day.”
A laugh comes out of me. It sounds slightly unhinged.
“That is one way to put it.”
Her mouth softens by half a degree. “I’ll be direct. I do not represent Mason Sinclair nor SINsual Adult Toys. I do not represent any board member, shareholder, executive, spouse, or emotionally wounded relative with internet access.”
Despite everything, I smile.
“I represent you,” she says. “Only you. If you hire me, my advice will be based solely on protecting your legal, professional, and personal interests. Understood?”
I nod.
“Good. Tell me what happened.”
So I do. I start with Amsterdam. The one room. The beginning. Seattle. The office. The relationship continuing. Jenna’s post. Tate’s call. Sex Activity Pro.
Mara takes notes without changing expression.
When I finish, she asks, “Was the relationship consensual?”
“Yes.”
“Any pressure from Mr. Sinclair?”
“No.”
“Any threats, implied or explicit, related to your job?”
“No.”
“Any promises? Promotion, compensation, favorable treatment?”
“No.”
“Did he make employment decisions directly tied to you during the relationship?”
I hesitate and Mara looks up.
“Ms. Cross.”
“He’s the CEO.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I close my eyes for one second. “He approved travel. Reviewed work. Gave feedback on projects. He was involved in the Sins line.”
“So yes.”
“Yes.”
She writes that down. God, I hate that everyone writes things down.
“Did anyone at the company know?”
“I don’t think so. Not officially. His brothers suspected. One almost walked in on us.”
Her pen pauses.
I look at the ceiling. “Please don’t make me repeat that sentence.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need you to.”
“Great.”
So I tell her about Wilder and how we almost got caught in my office. Mara’s face remains impressively blank, but I can tell she is internally pouring a drink.
When I finish, she says, “All right.”
I sink lower in the chair.
She sets her pen down. “Here is what you need to understand. You may have done something morally complicated. That is not the same as forfeiting your rights.”
The words hit strangely.
She continues, “You are still entitled to privacy, protection from harassment, and you are still entitled to pursue another job without being smeared as revenge.”
My eyes burn. Oh no. Not here in front of terrifying lawyer Barbie.
Mara reaches for a tissue box and slides it across the desk without comment and I take one.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t apologize to me for having a normal human response to public humiliation.”
Well. Now I need two tissues.
My phone vibrates in my bag. Then again. Then again.
Mara’s eyes flicker to it. “Is that normal?”
“No. Nothing about today is normal.”
“Check it.”
I pull out my phone. There are messages from Opal. A lot of them.
Opal York
Laurel, CALL ME!
Wait, don’t call me if you’re driving.
Don’t look at the internet!!
Video
Someone in accounting just sent this to me.
My stomach twists. Then I see the missed calls.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
The list goes on as a new text appears from a number I don’t recognize.
Homewrecker.
My breath stops as another one comes through.
Everyone knows it was you.
The room tilts slightly.
Mara stands. “Laurel?”
I don’t answer because my thumb has moved without permission and opened the link Opal sent.
A video loads. A woman that I assume is Jenna’s mother appears on-screen, face flushed, eyes bright with the righteous fury of a woman who has never met a boundary she couldn’t steamroll for engagement. I hear my name before I can mute it.
“Laurel Cross,” she says, clear as a bell. “That’s the woman. She works for him. She knew he was married, and she went after him anyway.”
My entire body goes cold but the video keeps playing.
“She humiliated my daughter. She slept with Mason Sinclair while Jenna was trying to save her marriage. And now the company is trying to hide her overseas—don’t let them fool you. Her name is Laurel Cross.”
And then she tells the entire internet my phone number.
Mara takes the phone from my hand and stops the video. For a second, I can’t breathe.
My name.
My actual name.
On the internet.
Attached to whore.
Homewrecker.
Employee.
Affair.
Sin.
My vision blurs at the edges.