Chapter 20 #2
Oliver’s brows turn inward. “Fuck, what a piece of shit.”
“The photos didn’t have my face in them, but we were newly exclusive, so who else would it have been? Once they inevitably
spread, people knew it was me. Malcolm was in some of them too, but people didn’t care that it was him; the photos were of me. I came into work, and everyone was staring and whispering. I don’t know how I knew what happened, but I just knew.”
I take a fortifying gulp of wine. “There were only a few other women in the office. One of them said she had heard rumors
of what was being circulated. When I asked Malcolm about it, he didn’t deny it.
“I never saw Malcolm as my person, like the love of my life or anything—we’d only been exclusive for a few months, but to
have someone you trusted do that to you . . . it was like it was his plan the entire time we were together, when he was pursuing
me . . .” I trail off, unable to express the feeling. “Afterward, my entire world imploded. Work, friends, family, how others
saw me, how I saw myself . . .”
“Jesus, I can’t ever imagine wanting to do that to someone,” Oliver muses, staring at my hand.
I shrug, almost numb to it. “Those kinds of companies are always pitting the highest-performing juniors against each other . . .
I was doing better than him, receiving more praise from our mentors, getting invited to more high-level meetings. One of the
few women in your office outperforming you isn’t a good look in those kinds of circles. Especially your own girlfriend.”
Oliver looks disgusted. “So instead of trying harder, he did . . . that.”
My voice wobbles as I nod solemnly. “In hindsight, I think he wanted it to wreck me.”
“Isn’t revenge porn illegal in the UK? Did you press charges?”
I nod my confirmation. “Since 2015. But because Malcolm was not only my boyfriend but also my colleague, instead of immediately
going to the police, I went to HR and reported it.” I shake my head. “I should have gone to the police, but our director convinced
me to not press charges. I guess Graystone didn’t want a public scandal. They’d already been in hot water for their manager
wage gap and their appalling lack of diverse hiring. The last thing they wanted was one of the few women who they let in being
photographed without her consent, and the press getting wind of it.” I wipe an escaping tear from my cheek. “They told me
if I went to the police, the chances of prosecution would be minimal, so they offered me a deal instead. They told me they
would get rid of Malcolm if I agreed to an NDA, if I didn’t ‘make a scene.’” I finger quote, remembering the exact way the head of HR said the words.
“Malcolm was put on temporary leave while they decided what to do with him; the deliberation period was longer than he and I were even together. After it was all over, I stayed at Graystone for a while, but I knew everyone there was judging me, had seen underneath my clothes, and measured me by what they saw. Every side-eye when I entered a room, every off comment from a male colleague. I knew they would never respect me again. I couldn’t handle it.
Every person I spoke to, all I could think was ‘Have they seen it?’ I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t perform to the standard I was before because every time anyone looked at me, it felt like that day all over again.
I couldn’t get through a day without a panic attack. So eventually, I left.”
In the moment, I decide against telling Oliver that my director noticed I was spiraling and bought my silence with an offer
of garden leave and a generous severance package. The money I used to create Wyst. Instead, I bend the truth. “That’s why
I work for Wyst. If I had access to information on exactly what to do in that situation, I would have gone to the police instead,
pressed charges.”
Instead of accepting a bribe that’s drying up before my eyes.
Oliver’s jaw ticks as he studies my face. “And I’m guessing you had no idea he was going to be here at TechRumble?”
“No. I blocked him on every social media platform. Turns out he’s a business journalist now.” I shrug. “If you can’t do it,
write about other people doing it, I guess.”
He leans forward, placing his hand on mine like I did his. “I’m so sorry you went through that.”
I don’t correct him. I don’t tell him that I’m still going through that.
I’ve spent so much time thinking about Malcolm it feels like we were so much more than just a fledgling relationship.
When we both agreed to the deal Graystone presented, we signed a contract together.
Forever bound by ink and paper. A marriage of convenience—I don’t press charges; he deletes the images and requests everyone he sent them to delete them.
But I would be naive to think that would be the end of it.
Once an image is out there, it’s never completely gone.
I sit back, blowing out a breath. “Sorry, that was a lot. Maybe it’s all the competition in the air; we didn’t need to have
a trauma-off.” I laugh, wiping at my lash line before another tear escapes.
He keeps his hand wrapped around mine, running a comforting thumb over my palm. “The experiences are part of us. They shaped
who we are, for better or for worse. But yeah, I think we deserve a stronger drink.”
After another glass of wine, we ease into lighter topics—likes and dislikes, favorite books, and movies. Mine: Legally Blonde. His: Ratatouille, obviously. I admit I missed out on all pasta and gelato in Rome, much to his dismay.
“At the risk of sounding like a stalker, I couldn’t find a trace of you anywhere online after Rome.”
“I don’t have social media, not anymore.” I don’t mention that I use the safety blanket of the Wyst accounts to get my fix
of dopamine.
He nods with a look of understanding. “If I had your number, I would have called you when I was in London.”
I place an olive in my mouth with a small smile, relieved to not be talking about Malcolm anymore. “You’re assuming I would
have picked up.”
His eyes twinkle as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and types “Violet Leigh” into his contacts before handing me the phone.
To register for the conference entry lanyards, I also had to come up with a fake last name.
Clearly, I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired the night I filled in the form, using my middle name as the fake surname.
My eyes sting against the name illuminated in LED light, a new pang of guilt hitting me from a different angle with each digit I type in.
I delete the fake name, unable to stomach it after the almost truth I just unveiled. I type in a new contact name and my phone
number before handing it back to him, our fingers lingering against each other’s.
“‘Enigma on legs’?” he recites with a smirk.
“Feels more accurate.” I shrug.
He calls my phone, giving me his phone number.
“What should I save you as?”
He stretches nonchalantly. “‘Handsome Multilingual Charming American’ has a good ring to it.”
I type out “Olly Olly Olly, Oi Oi Oi” and show it to him.
He looks aghast, scraping his chair against the stone floor. “Well, I was going to pay for dinner, but now I think you can
treat me. For the good of transatlantic relations.”
I blink as he stands and starts walking to the door. “Fine, only because I like to pay my getaway drivers a fair wage.”
As I hand the waiter a small wad of euro notes, he points at Oliver and says in broken English, “No, no. Your husband, he
already pay.” I blush, say my thanks, and follow Oliver out the front door.
Neither of us want to go back to the real world just yet, so we move on to a dark bar with wine on tap, red and black fabric-lined walls softening the edges.
Not quite seedy with a capital S but definitely on the verge.
Somewhere you’d expect a showgirl to start dancing on your table at any second, but it’s calm,
the calmest I’ve felt for weeks.
Our hands tangle tentatively under the table as we relax on an oxblood chesterfield sofa, sending a thrill down my spine like
a lightning strike down a tree. The glow from tiny tea candles emblazons the bar with warm dappled light, like the whole room
is on fire and everyone is totally okay with it. My blood feels hot as I study Oliver’s contrasted face, the furrow of his
brow even stronger in the shadows. I cross my legs, my dress inching up my thighs just a fraction. He smells like black pepper
and dark chocolate, two foods I’ve never thought of putting together and now am craving nothing but.
There is no point in the past hour where we haven’t been touching. Our shins, leaning against one another under the table
in the restaurant, our arms, as he offered the crook of his elbow for me to dangle off over the cobblestone streets, his thumb
tracing over my palm like he’s reading my fortune. His hand engulfs mine as we stumble back to the hotel in a giddy, tipsy,
flirty cloud. Despite the chill in the air and the light misting of rain, taxi after taxi drives by unhailed as we try to
draw out every drop of the night, our thirst for each other unquenchable.