Chapter Thirteen Imani
It doesn’t take long for me and Asher to become regulars on @TrustFundTea, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
On the one hand, it means that the ‘create enough social chaos to force my father to pull the plug on this whole idea’ aspect of our plan is working exactly as intended. On the other, I’m not entirely sure how much more humiliation I can take.
My entire life up until now has revolved around maintaining the Davies brand.
Perfect grades. Impeccable manners. Supporting the right causes.
Being seen with the right people in the right places.
Every single move has been over scrutinised and examined to make sure I’m not doing anything to bring the Davies name into disrepute.
And in just two months, I’ve destroyed a lifetime of soul-crushing work.
I guess my father has trained me better than I thought, because every time I see my face pop up on @TrustFundTea’s stories or main feed, I want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
When our evening at The Opal Vault pops up less than an hour after I get home, I watch and rewatch the shaky video of Asher and I trading barbs over candlelight, unable to look away even though I desperately want to.
The caption is straight to the point: Davies vs. Vouvalis Round Two. Place your bets, darlings. It gets thousands of likes and comments within twenty minutes of being uploaded.
The horrible, pinching feeling that settles in the pit of my stomach as I doom scroll through the comments doesn’t go away. In fact, it only intensifies.
@nellie247: If i was worth ￡50 mil you can bet your ass i wouldn’t be caught dead fighting over appetisers
@princesspenny: Asher Vouvalis finally emerges from his cave and THIS is what he does?
@user4232: are rich people OKAY???
And it only gets worse from there.
Someone snaps a few well-timed photos and videos of Asher and I glaring daggers at each other from our seats at a charity art auction a few weeks later and submits them to @TrustFundTea before the day is over.
It’s the kind of event where you can buy a piece of aggressively conceptual art for less than the cost of a small yacht and still feel like you’ve done something charitable.
Not my preferred way of spending a Sunday afternoon, but Sloane had heard through the grapevine that Emmy would be in attendance, and it seemed like too good an opportunity for carefully crafted scandal for us to pass it up.
Asher spent the entire event either loudly making snide remarks about any of the pieces I pretended to show an interest in or aggressively outbidding me, which culminated in him buying a ridiculously abstract canvas painting for far too much money (hilarious), as well as a too-loud argument between us in the foyer of the auction house that had all eyes on us (humiliating).
The @TrustFundTea post was up within minutes of me pulling my car door shut. It’s a carousel post with nine photos, with the final one being an unflattering zoom-in of me raising my paddle and Asher seated several rows behind, smirking as he raises his even higher.
The comments come in thick and fast:
@user198503: These two AGAIN? at this point it must be a humiliation kink because???
@hotboysummer: Why do I ship this?????
@Janet_13486: Ok, I DESPERATELY need to know the backstory here.
@TrustFundTea: @Janet_13486 You and me both, hun! If anyone has the tea, send it my way xo
I know that I shouldn’t be obsessing over this and all the gleeful commenters who are parasocially delighted by the public implosion of me and Asher, but I can’t stop scrolling.
Not when, a month later, I cause a scene at a glamorous dinner in honour of a designer who is about to retire after sixty years of groundbreaking collections and refuse to be seated next to Asher and @TrustFundTea posts no fewer than eight stories about it in a row.
Not when I’m caught, a week or two after that, on video chucking a handbag at the closing elevator doors in Selfridges, with Asher smirking behind them as they clamp shut.
And not even when someone pretends to be a close friend and gives @TrustFundTea the alleged exclusive of what went down ten years ago at university. All lies, of course, but the commenters eat up every word.
Every outing, every event, every fleeting glance over the last few months turns into ‘content’.
My name and his has become shorthand for ‘public meltdown’ online.
Our faces are plastered across gossip accounts, headlines, memes, even a handful of TikTok edits set to a Taylor Swift bridge.
Every time I open up Instagram and check @TrustFundTea, I feel a little worse.
It’s mortifying and I don’t know why I haven’t just blocked the page yet, but it’s become like pressing on a bruise just to make sure it still hurts.
Spoiler: it does.
My father is furious, of course. He’s purpled-faced with righteous indignation, pacing and huffing over every new viral post over on @TrustFundTea.
I can get a small sense of satisfaction from that at the very least. Although he hasn’t backtracked on his Vouvalis merger plans and my marriage to Asher yet, at least he’s feeling the pain of social humiliation from my actions just as much as I am.
Every time a new scandal drops, I get a call or text, summoning me to his office where he spends a good thirty minutes trying to yell and shame me back into submission.
I keep thinking that this is it. That this is going to be the scandal that slaps some sense into him and makes him pull the plug on this ridiculous scheme. But it never is.
We’re nearly three months into this, and he’s still not wavered. A growing part of me is starting to wonder if he ever will.
‘Remind me again where you’re going tonight?’ Sloane asks, snapping me out of a spiral of increasingly dour thoughts. ‘A film premiere, or a funeral?’
‘Ha, ha,’ I deadpan, glancing over at my phone propped against my dresser mirror.
Sloane’s face takes up the entirety of my screen, and I can spy the countryside hurtling past her in a whirl of blurred greens in the train window behind her.
She’s supposed to be here getting ready with me, but she booked a last-minute job in Scotland and is heading there now, leaving me here alone to spiral.
‘I might cancel,’ I say, brush in hand. My hair is dripping with gel, ready to be pulled back into my signature tight bun, but I can’t bring myself to finish the job. Every time I reach for my brush, a wave of nausea hits me and I find something else to busy myself with.
‘It’s too late to bail,’ Sloane says, and she’s right.
My car is due to arrive in fifteen minutes and Asher is probably on his way already.
‘And if you don’t show up, they’ll probably think you’re doing it specifically to avoid Asher, and that’ll only make them talk more.
You’ll get another weirdo pretending to be your friend on @TrustFundTea, claiming that you were too heartbroken to show your face or something. ’
‘Maybe they’ll forget I RSVP’d,’ I say weakly. I reach for my brush again, but that same horrible feeling rears its ugly head and instead I reapply my lipstick for the tenth time.
Sloane snorts. ‘You’re not that delusional.’
I let out an irritated sigh. I wish I was that delusional, but alas.
Asher and I have done such a good job with our faux feud, that people have actually started placing bets on what events we’ll attend and act the fool at in the @TrustFundTea comment section.
Tonight’s film premiere was a popular choice and, at the time, feeding into the chaos and rumours had seemed like a good idea.
But that was before the reality of being the laughing stock of all my peers had really settled in.
The idea of showing up tonight and knowing that people will be watching me intently, waiting for me to provide the next round of gossip fodder, is enough to make me want to wipe off my make-up, wrap my hair in a scarf, and crawl into bed and forget I’m currently the biggest embarrassment on the social scene.
‘I know, I know.’ I grab my brush and start reluctantly scraping my hair back. Ten minutes until my car arrives. ‘I’m just tired of this. At what point do we just throw in the towel and—’
‘And what?’ Sloane scoffs, brows arched in disbelief. ‘At what point do you just throw in the towel and get married to a man you barely know?’
‘No, not that,’ I say quickly, but the protest sounds weak even to my ears. ‘Maybe we need to recalibrate, because you were right. Maybe this was a stupid plan.’
Sloane doesn’t respond immediately. For a moment, I think that I’ve lost her thanks to a dodgy connection but then she shakes her head and lets out a quiet sigh. ‘This is a stupid plan.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I scowl at my best friend. ‘I’ve literally just said that. You were right and I was wrong. No need to rub it in.’
‘But you’ve committed to it now,’ Sloane continues like I didn’t interrupt.
‘You can’t undo all of this. The damage is done so you may as well lean into it now.
Go hard or go home. You wanted to cause enough drama so your dad has no choice but to call things off, and that’s exactly what you’re doing.
As far as asinine plans go, I’d say this one is currently a roaring success. ’
‘But it’s not working,’ I say, irritation creeping into my tone. Why doesn’t she get this? ‘My dad’s not budging, and neither is Asher’s father. At this point I have to wonder if I’m just delaying the inevitable and embarrassing myself for nothing every time I leave the house.’
Sloane’s expression softens slightly. If she were here right now, she’d be pulling me into a one-armed hug. ‘It’s not even been three months yet.’
‘Well, it feels like an eternity,’ I interject bitterly.
‘I just mean,’ she continues, ‘did you really think your dad was the type of guy to fold in less than three months? Come on, babe. You’re smarter than that.’
I wince. Her words sting slightly because she’s right again. She always is.