Emma Stone The Fappening Novels & Stories

Whether Ella likes it or not, I’m here to stay. We only have about thirty minutes left of the drive when I get a notification on one of my apps. Tapping on it, I see that it’s a video labeled ‘Sluts-R-Us’, that one of Kaylee’s friends posted, so I click on it. My hackles rise right away when I see Ella’s face on the screen. Her and Brandon are having a conversation, and you can tell that whatever Ella is saying has been prerecorded and put over her own words making her sound like a slut.

She simply sat there, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Took you long enough to confess,” she said quietly. The room tilted. Confess? I stared at her, stunned. “How long have you—” “How long have I known?” she cut in. “The real question is—” She lifted her phone and dropped it on the table. The screen lit up. My stomach dropped. It was Emma. Emma in that stunning pink dress from the staff event, smiling shyly at someone off camera. It went viral with thousands of retweets and thousands of comments.

Emma stood outside 229 Oak Hill Lane at 9:17 p.m., the bass from inside thumping through her ribs. The house was ridiculous—three stories of glass and stone, lights pulsing pink and purple like some I*******m influencer’s wet dream. She’d worn a simple black dress that hugged her curves, no bra, no panties exactly like he’d ordered, and the night air kept brushing between her legs, reminding her how insane this was. Sarah had texted three times already: WHERE ARE YOU?? I’m at the movies alone like a loser.

Emma Stone clutched her notebook tightly against her chest, the crisp autumn air biting at her cheeks as she walked down the bustling New York City street. The Blackwood Enterprises headquarters loomed ahead, a towering monolith of steel and glass that seemed to pierce the heavens. Her stomach churned with nerves. This is it, she thought, the interview of a lifetime. Don’t mess it up.

He was taller and heavier than Max, but Max didn’t back down. “No, Jackson. I’m very curious how you don’t think it will hurt you and that pretty little girl you have acting for you,” Max said. Jackson nearly punched him. “Easy,” Jackson whispered. “I got home early that night and surprised Emma with flowers. We put the video online. It was a live stream.” Jackson pulled out his phone, swiped the fingerprint scan and scrolled through F******k. “See? It got nine-hundred and eighty-seven likes,” Jackson told Max. He hit play on the video to show Emma walking through the door and seeing a room full of flowers. Her smile lit up the dim garage. She’d been so surprised.

Sasha pours two glasses,sparkling cider for me, rosé for her. “To evil exes and their tiny fake blobs.” We clink our glasses and giggle. My phone buzzes from an unknown number. It's a video file. I play it. The footage reveals Celeste in her apartment, crying to camera. “Ethan Grant ruined me. He got me pregnant and abandoned me. The Grants will pay for silencing me.” The video ends with her smashing a glass against the wall. Sasha’s eyes widen. “She’s unhinged.” I forward it to Ethan and Dante with two words; Catsuit Crazy.

Emma grabbed it, squinting at the screen in the predawn darkness. The message had no words. Just a video file attachment. She sat up, suddenly wide awake. Unknown numbers sending videos at 5 AM was never good news. But ignoring it wouldn't make it go away. Emma opened the file. The video was grainy, shot from a distance with a telephoto lens. It showed Emma leaving her apartment building yesterday morning. Showed her walking to the subway. Showed her entering the medical archives. Showed her meeting Damien and Victoria at the coffee shop.

"Don't always frown. You will have wrinkles..." "I'm upset!" "Don't be. I'll tell you some good news. I heard that Zachary's apartment building is blocked by paparazzi." Emma was still in low spirits. "Is there anything to be happy about?" Hearing this, Jamie smiled mysteriously and leaned over. "But Jenny is over there!" With this sentence, Emma's eyes lit up. "Really?" "How can I fake it?"

I did not get to finish it. It started as a murmur near the champagne table — a phone tilted toward another phone, a laugh that wasn't the kind you wanted at a wedding. By the time I understood what was on the screen, it was already everywhere. Grainy club footage, timestamped six days ago. Ace Stone's hands in some woman's hair. Her mouth on his. My hands. My mouth. I didn't need to see my own face to know. Someone near the string quartet said the groom's name like it was a headline already, and it was — Billionaire Ace Stone's Secret Kiss, Six Days Before I Do — spreading through phones faster than the string quartet could finish their song.

This is embarrassing. "If this makes it better, I'm Estelle Evans, Eeeee." And here we are, laughing again that some pairs of eyes are starting to divert towards us. "Owen Harris, Ohhhh." Definitely two idiots with their Eeee and Ohhh.