Chapter Three

I wake up to seventeen missed calls.

My head is pounding. My mouth tastes like regret and cheap wine. I reach for my phone and immediately regret it when the screen brightness stabs my eyes.

Twelve calls from my mom. Three from Brandon. Two from numbers I don't recognize.

Great.

I check the time. 11:47 AM. I slept through my alarm. Through three client meetings. Through any chance of salvaging today.

There's a text from Maya: **Check I*******m. Don't freak out.**

I immediately freak out.

I open I*******m. My notifications are exploding. Hundreds of new followers. Dozens of DMs. Comments on photos from months ago.

What the hell?

I click on my latest post. A photo from last week's wedding. Simple caption about love and new beginnings. Very on brand for a wedding photographer.

Except now it has 3,000 comments.

**@kellsey_marie: This you? The psycho ex from Tyler's party?**

**@bradonfoster_official: For everyone asking, yes this is my ex. Yes she made a scene. Yes I'm sorry you all had to witness that.**

Brandon tagged me. In a post. With a photo of me from last night.

I click through to his profile.

There I am. Red faced. Crying. Mascara running. Looking absolutely unhinged in the hallway outside Tyler's party.

The caption makes me want to scream.

**@bradonfoster_official: Sometimes relationships end because one person can't handle growth. My ex showed up to my brother's engagement party and harassed me and my fiancée all night. I tried to let her down easy but some people can't take no for an answer. Wishing her healing and hoping she gets the help she needs. 🙏**

Twenty thousand likes.

Four thousand comments.

I scroll through them. Each one worse than the last.

**She looks crazy**

**Dodged a bullet bro**

**Girls like this are why men have trust issues**

**Someone get her therapy**

**Obsessed much?**

I keep scrolling. Keep reading. Keep torturing myself.

There are responses from people I know. Brandon's friends. Mutual acquaintances. All taking his side.

**@tyler_foster: Man I'm sorry you had to deal with that at my party. Sloane always was intense.**

Tyler. The one who told me Brandon was an asshole last night. Now he's publicly agreeing with him.

I run to the bathroom. Barely make it before I'm throwing up everything from last night.

When I'm done I sit on the floor. Back against the tub. Phone clutched in my hand.

This is a nightmare.

My phone rings. Mom.

I answer because ignoring her will only make it worse.

"Sloane Marie Thompson, what is going on?"

"Mom, I can explain."

"Explain what? Why Brandon is posting about you online? Why half the town is calling me asking if you're okay? Why you're not answering your phone?"

"It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you had a public meltdown at an engagement party."

"Brandon proposed to someone else! At a party I was working! With a ring I found in his apartment!"

Silence.

Then: "He what?"

I tell her everything. Again. The ring. The proposal. The fight. All of it.

"That son of a bitch," Mom says quietly.

"He's posting about me like I'm some crazy stalker."

"Where are you now?"

"Home. Maya's apartment technically."

"Stay there. Don't post anything. Don't respond to anyone. I'm calling my lawyer friend."

"Mom, I can't afford a lawyer."

"You're not paying. I am. Nobody treats my daughter like this."

She hangs up before I can argue.

I sit there on the bathroom floor. Seventeen years old again. Small. Helpless.

My phone buzzes.

**Unknown: Saw the post. Brandon's a liar. Don't let him win.**

The same number from last night.

**Me: Who are you?**

**Unknown: Someone who knows what it's like to be destroyed online**

**Me: That's not an answer**

**Unknown: You'll find out soon enough**

**Me: Are you threatening me?**

**Unknown: I'm trying to help you**

**Me: Then tell me who you are**

They don't respond.

I block the number. I don't need mysterious strangers adding to my problems.

Another notification. An email this time.

**Subject: Photography Contract Opportunity**

I almost delete it. Probably spam. Probably someone trying to scam me while I'm vulnerable.

But something makes me open it.

**Ms. Thompson,**

**We came across your work through recent social media activity. Your portfolio demonstrates raw talent that our client finds intriguing. We'd like to discuss a potential contract opportunity.**

**If interested, please respond within 24 hours to schedule a meeting.**

**Best regards,**

**Claire Monroe**

**Artist Management, Cross Entertainment**

Cross Entertainment.

As in Lennon Cross Entertainment.

As in the biggest music label in the country.

This has to be fake.

I g****e Claire Monroe. She's real. Senior VP of Artist Management at Cross Entertainment. Her LinkedIn has 50,000 connections. She's worked with everyone.

This can't be real.

I read the email again. "Recent social media activity."

They saw Brandon's post. Saw me at my lowest. And they want to hire me?

This is definitely a scam.

But what if it's not?

I hover over the reply button. Cursor blinking.

What do I have to lose?

Everything, probably. But I've already lost everything. So what's a little more humiliation?

I type out a response.

**Ms. Monroe,**

**I'm interested. When and where?**

**Sloane Thompson**

I hit send before I can overthink it.

The response comes back in thirty seconds.

**Tomorrow. 2 PM. Cross Entertainment offices, Manhattan. Ask for me at reception. Come prepared to discuss your work and availability.**

**Dress professionally.**

Manhattan. That's a two hour train ride. I don't have professional clothes anymore. Sold most of them when money got tight.

I text Maya.

**Me: Can I borrow something professional? Like interview professional?**

**Maya: Why?**

**Me: I might have a meeting tomorrow**

**Maya: What kind of meeting?**

**Me: The kind that's probably fake but I'm desperate enough to find out**

**Maya: I'm coming over**

She shows up twenty minutes later with coffee and a garment bag.

"Explain," she demands.

I show her the email.

Her eyes go wide. "Cross Entertainment? As in Lennon Cross?"

"I know it's probably fake."

"Sloane." She grabs my shoulders. "What if it's not?"

"Then why would they want me? I'm nobody. I shoot weddings. Brandon just publicly destroyed me online."

"Maybe that's exactly why they want you."

"That makes no sense."

"Doesn't have to make sense. It just has to be real." She shoves the garment bag at me. "Try this on."

It's a black blazer and matching pants. Simple. Elegant. Exactly what I would've bought if I had money.

"Maya, I can't."

"You can and you will. Because you're going to that meeting and you're going to nail it and you're going to get whatever job they're offering."

"What if they're not offering anything? What if it's just a prank?"

"Then you wasted two hours on a train. So what? Better than sitting here reading comments about how crazy you are."

She's right.

I try on the outfit. It fits perfectly.

"You look like you belong in Manhattan," Maya says.

"I look like I'm playing dress up."

"Same thing."

I check my phone. The I*******m comments are still coming. Brandon posted another photo. This one of him and Kelsey. Looking perfect. Looking happy.

The caption: **Moving forward with the love of my life. 💕**

I want to throw my phone across the room.

Instead I screenshot it. Save it. Evidence for later.

"Don't torture yourself," Maya says.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"He gets to lie about me and I'm just supposed to take it?"

"No. You're supposed to get successful enough that his lies don't matter."

"That's not how the world works."

"Then make it work that way."

She leaves around dinner time. Makes me promise I'll eat something. That I'll sleep. That I'll show up tomorrow.

I promise even though I'm not sure I can keep any of it.

That night I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Running through every scenario. Every possible outcome of tomorrow's meeting.

Best case: Real job. Real money. Real chance to start over.

Worst case: Elaborate prank. More humiliation. Confirmation that I'm exactly as pathetic as everyone thinks.

My phone buzzes.

New follower on I*******m: **@lennoncross**

I sit up so fast I get dizzy.

Lennon Cross. THE Lennon Cross. Just followed me.

I click on his profile. 47 million followers. Verified. Latest post is from a sold out show in London last week.

He followed 23 people total.

I'm number 24.

What the hell is happening?

I refresh the page three times. He's still following me.

A DM pops up.

**@lennoncross: See you tomorrow, Sloane.**

I stare at the screen for a full minute.

Tomorrow.

The meeting.

It's real.