Chapter 39 In The Court of Public Opinion #3
Every comment thread wants a theory. Reddit’s mythologizing me into two options only: villain with mysterious motives or folk hero who finally snapped.
My DMs are an archaeological dig of every mistake I’ve made since undergrad.
Someone on a Medill forum is speculating about my “addiction history.” A private business Slack is debating whether I’m a sociopath or just a “run-of-the-mill narcissist.”
A new rumor sprouts every hour. Each one more deranged. Each one more plausible.
And the Buchanan’s?
Quiet. Too quiet.
That’s the thing about people with real power. They don’t post. They don’t spiral. They don’t clap back.
They wait.
They already made their first move. Quiet. Legal. The kind that doesn’t trend. Now they’re deciding what to do in public. Which blade to show.
A notification pings, louder than the rest.
Breaking: Official Statement from the Buchanan Family.
I brace for impact. The subject line is bored, almost polite, like they’re announcing new stationery.
“An unfortunate altercation occurred at a charity event over the weekend. Our son was injured and is recovering with family. We have no further comment at this time.”
Bullshit dressed up in concern.
But it works. The press eats it alive.
Somehow, I’ve gone from keynote speaker to poster child for unhinged rich men in forty-eight hours. There’s a clip now, blurry and vertical, probably filmed by a waiter, circulating on TikTok.
No sound. Just motion.
My back. My swing. Spencer stumbling. Security rushing in.
Comments disabled. Doesn’t stop the internet from talking.
“Was that August James?” “Who’s that woman in the green dress…” “This sounding real domestic. Ohhhh this messy.”
That last one hits like a punch.
Harlee.
Her name passed around like she’s an accessory to my worst moment. A footnote in my headline. And I hate it. I hate that I put her there. That I didn’t think about the weight she’d have to carry just for standing beside me when everything cracked.
Another ping.
@spencbuch just posted.
I click without thinking.
@spenchbuch Tried to raise money for children’s brain cancer, got a broken nose instead ??
That’s it.
Well, that and the photo: bruised face, gauze in one nostril, drink in hand, grinning like he’s about to sue me into the Stone Age.
My jaw tightens so hard it clicks.
Kelley texts me three words: We’ll handle it.
I stare at the screen for a beat too long, then close it.
I need to clear my head before I do something worse than punch a trust fund in the face.
The condo’s dark when she shows up.
No knock. Just the soft click of the door and the rustle of her coat like she belongs here. Like she’s done it a hundred times.
She doesn’t say much at first. Just drops her bag, finds me in the living room. Laptop open. Nothing touched.
“I was leaving the office,” she murmurs. “And I got tired of pretending we’re not us.”
She doesn’t sit beside me. Not yet. She just stays across from me, warm and steady.
We don’t talk about the press. Or the board. Or Spencer.
We talk about nothing.
Her tea order was wrong again. Someone on her team got engaged. She heard a remix of an old Brandy song in the Uber and forgot how much she loved it.
And somehow, that becomes everything.
One night turns into two. Then three. A week.
The headlines kept coming anyway. The calendar kept emptying anyway. I’d wake up to Emmett’s emails like they were court summons. Harlee would hand me tea like it could hold my ribs together.
My place stops feeling like purgatory. Starts feeling like pause. Like safety.
She’s still working. Still showing up. Still keeping us private, quiet, protected.
But when she’s not there, she’s here.
In my T-shirt. In my fridge. In my space.
Feet tucked under her on the couch, humming while she reads. Asking if I want ginger or peppermint before bed. Complaining about how I fold towels. Falling asleep on my chest like the world isn’t one headline away from collapsing.
I send her TikTok’s during office hours. She threatens to block me.
Yesterday she told me if I didn’t stop texting sea otters and skillet recipes during meetings, she’d file an HR report against me and my IP address.
I told her I’d start sending singing telegrams.
“You need to come back to work,” she said. “This much attention is dangerous. You’re like a toddler with a trust fund.”
She’s not wrong.
But she still shows up. Still stays.
We haven’t gone out, not publicly, but we’ve made a home out of hiding.
Tuesday
The Buchanan’s pull their donation with a single line:
Our giving priorities have shifted for the coming year.
No names. No drama. Just strategy disguised as diplomacy. And just like that, one of our largest funders is gone.
Emmett forwards the email at 6:04 a.m., followed by one word:
Expected.
Wednesday
Three outlets run the same story in slightly different fonts:
When Power Becomes Reckless: Can Charisma Substitute for Character?
They don’t name Spencer.
They name me.
They quote my foundations, my boardroom wins, my smile, then pair it with a photo from last year’s mixer like it’s evidence in a trial.
Unstable. Unfit. Too emotional for a minority in a suit.
Thursday
The board votes.
Unanimous.
“Strategic leave of absence.” That’s the language. Tactful. Rehearsed.
Kelley doesn’t flinch when he hands me the memo. “Step back now or be dragged later.”
I sign it without comment.
Friday
Emmett’s working like the firm is on life support. Sleeves rolled. Tie gone. One AirPod permanently in.
I try to call a client. His assistant says he’s “unavailable indefinitely.”
I check Slack. My name’s been removed from two threads.
Kelley texts me a video of a flaming trash can floating down a flooded street.
Here lies Q4.
Saturday
I don’t sleep. I refresh social like it’ll change anything.
Harlee’s story pops up: a slow pan of her apartment. Holiday lights blinking in the corner. Wynter’s music low in the background. Laughter I don’t recognize.
She looks peaceful.
Like she’s somewhere I can’t follow.
Monday (again)
She texts at 8:47 a.m.
Harlee: Your parking spot’s still empty. Just saying.
I stare at it too long.
I type: You miss me already? Delete.
If someone parks there, You have my permission to key it. Delete.
Wish I was there. Delete.
I leave the thread open. Never reply.
Three weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since the punch. Since the press tour of silence. Since my calendar wiped clean like a hard reset no one asked for.
The firm’s winding down for the holidays now, quiet halls, out-of-office replies stacking up like snowdrifts.
Emmett’s still in the trenches, whispering confidence into rooms that haven’t dropped us yet.
I’m not in any of those rooms.
Kelley’s carrying the weight now. Sliding into meetings I used to run. Taking calls I should’ve taken. He doesn’t complain. Just sends the occasional document with a Post-it stuck to the front:
You still breathe, right?
I do.
More than that, really.
Because even in the stillness, she’s here.
The rumors slow, a little. Long enough for the question to change:
Will I return as CEO in January?
Or not at all?
No one asks me directly.
Not even Sadie.
Which is how I know it’s bad.
My phone buzzes.
Sadie.
I stare at it for a second, then answer.
“James.”
The change from August to James tells me everything I don't want to know.
“You alive?” she asks finally.
“Last I checked.”
“Mmm.” Papers shuffle on her end. Keyboard clicking like nothing in the world is on fire. “Because the board’s been acting like we need to start planning a memorial.”
I huff out something that almost passes for a laugh. “Tell them to hold off on the flowers.”
“Good, then I'm not worried,” she says. Then, softer, sharper, like she’s stepping out from behind the desk for a second, “You good?”
It lands heavier than anything Emmett said all week.
“I’ve been worse.”
“I know,” she says.
And she does.
A beat.
“I hope she’s worth it.”
Silence.
I don’t ask what she means.
She doesn’t explain.
“Eat something,” she adds, like she didn’t just say it. “You sound like you’ve been living off coffee and bad decisions.”
“Only one of those is new.”
The line clicks.
That’s the thing about power. Once it’s stripped, you stop being a person.
You become a symbol. A headline. Something to manage.
Or erase.
I haven’t made a decision.
Haven’t made much of anything lately.
It’s been… nice.