Chapter 14 Holly
Holly
Sunday morning. I've been awake for an hour, watching the numbers climb.
Fifty-seven thousand, three hundred.
Refresh—
Fifty-seven thousand, eight hundred.
Each number another stranger helping themselves to our private moment.
I'm sitting on my bathroom floor in Evan's hoodie from yesterday watching our kiss go viral in real-time. The photo spreads across every platform, tagged #NutcrackerRomance, #BillionaireKiss, and #HolidayMagic. Strangers add heart-eye emojis and comments about “relationship goals.”
My phone vibrates against the tile. Emma again. Twenty minutes of ignored calls, but she won't stop.
“Holly, thank heavens. Are you okay?”
“Remember when we were kids and thought being famous would be amazing?”
“Oh honey. Have you talked to him?”
“No.” Market Dispatch loads on my laptop: “Bellamy CEO's Romance Signals Strategic Image Shift.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“Did you see what Business Insider posted? They're calling it his 'charm offensive.' Asking if the timing is connected to year-end board meetings and spring fundraising goals.”
“You don't think he—”
“If you'd asked me yesterday, I would have said it's not possible.” Another headline loads. “Now, I don't know. Maybe he wasn't the ringleader—but he let it happen? Approved it? It's just too perfect, Emma. Everything is falling into place just as he needed, just as his PR team wanted.”
“Holly—”
“Maybe I still don't understand how this world works. Maybe this is normal for them, this lack of boundaries, this willingness to take advantage if you see an opportunity to benefit yourself.” My voice cracks.
“Emma, I really thought it was real. Maybe it was a little bit real, but I guess getting the PR boost was more important.”
I hear her take a deep breath. “Oh honey. I'm so sorry. Maybe there's more to the story? But whatever you need, I'm here for you. Say the word.”
“I don't know what I need.”
“That's okay too.”
“I have to go,” I say.
“Call me or text me. Anytime. I mean it.”
I end the call and stare at my laptop. The tile floor is cold. I've been sitting here so long my legs have gone numb.
A notification appears from a girl I barely know from college:
Congrats on landing the billionaire. Some girls have all the luck
My chest feels like someone's standing on it.
Now a notification from Evan.
Voice memo. I play it.
“Holly, I just saw. We'll handle this.”
His voice is tight. Controlled.
Handle.
I play it again.
Handle. Like I'm a crisis, not a person.
I don't respond.
Three more voice memos arrive. I don't listen to them.
Finally, I record one back:
“Hey. I can't—I know you want to talk, but I'm still trying to process everything.
Was this planned? Samantha wanted you to stop making 'unapproachable ice king' your brand.
Devin needed you to seem like a human being instead of a board meeting in a suit.
And now the headlines are saying exactly that.
'Finally stable.' 'Ready to lead.' It's all working out perfectly for you.”
Send.
His text arrives within seconds:
Evan
The PR benefits aren't why I care about you
How can either of us know for sure? When I'm so ... convenient?
I'm coming over
Don't
Holly please
I need space. I need to think.
Think about what? You can't believe I orchestrated this.
I don't think you orchestrated it. But you're benefiting from it.
That's not fair
At least you look beautiful in the photo.
What is happening right now?
I didn't mean that the way it sounded.
Holly.
Please answer.
I need space. Please.
I turn off my phone and pull Evan's hoodie tighter around me.
EVAN
She's not answering.
Three voice memos sent—but six recorded. The deleted ones where my voice cracked, where I said too much, where I admitted things that wouldn't help.
Five texts. Silence.
The photo is everywhere I look. I scroll through the coverage, trying to trace it back to the source. Every article links to the same place: a TikTok post. Username @BookishJoss.
Jocelyn.
My organs forget their proper places.
She answers on the first ring.
“Evan! I know, I know—I saw it everywhere. I'm so sorry. I posted it last night and when I woke up, it had like a million views and then The Daily Buzz picked it up and—”
“Jocelyn. Stop.”
She takes a breath. “Is Holly okay?”
“No. She's not.”
“I didn't think—it was just such a beautiful moment, and I was still high from the romance panel, and you two looked like an actual book cover—”
“It was private.”
“I know. I know that now. I took it down, but—”
“But it's everywhere already. You know we have to be careful, Jocelyn. Eyes are always watching, waiting to pounce on any nugget of a headline, even if the story is wrong. Nothing is ever really 'just for us'—there are always people ready to take advantage.”
“I didn't think—”
“One or two people see it, repost it, tag the right accounts, and suddenly it's everywhere. That's all it takes.”
“Yeah.” Her voice goes small. “I messed up, didn't I?”
I don't answer that.
“Should I call her? Apologize?”
“No. Just ... leave it.”
I hang up and send another voice memo to Holly.
“Jocelyn posted the original photo. She's horrified that you're upset, as you have every right to be. She's taken it down—I know that's meaningless now, since everyone's already grabbed it, but at least it's something … Holly, please. Talk to me.”
Outside her building, engine running. Phone face-up on my thigh, screen dimming and brightening with each new notification.
“At least you look beautiful in the photo.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
Should have said: This violation of your privacy is unforgivable.
Should have said: I'm so sorry this is happening.
Should have said: You matter more than any narrative.
Instead, I managed to make it worse.
I tap the steering wheel—that same rhythm from our drives, but it's wrong now, off beat, like my internal metronome is broken.
My phone buzzes.
Another headline: “Billionaire's Soft Turn: Investors Question Timing.”
The article speculates about my upcoming year-end board review, how a “humanized image” could strengthen my position with conservative board members who've questioned my leadership style.
They're not entirely wrong; those reviews exist, those doubts exist. I've never cared about managing my image before.
But now it looks like I do. Like I picked Holly because she was perfect for the optics. The warm, accessible girlfriend to soften the ice-king CEO.
My publicist has already forwarded me two articles, subject line: “This is the best possible narrative for the foundation.”
Her voice message echoes: “It's all working out perfectly for you.”
And I can't blame her for wondering if I let this happen on purpose.
I stare at her dark windows, willing her to look out, to see me here, to understand that none of this was planned.
But she doesn't appear.
And I can't blame her.