SLOANE

Some people wallowed after a disaster. Others threw fits of temper.

Me? I planned.

I had a week to swallow my shock, anger, horror, and the thousand other emotions that exploded after Perry’s post. I could dwell on Rhea’s unfair firing or work myself into a state of panic over being cut off entirely from Pen, but that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Instead, I did what I did best: I figured out how to solve a crisis.

It started with taking down Perry.

I’d already planted the seeds for my revenge; it was time to harvest them.

I tapped my pen against my knee and stared at my laptop. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I was working from home again. I’d already filled five pages of notes on Operation PW (Operation Perry Wilson).

Perry’s power stemmed from two things: information and the platform to disseminate that information. Over the years, the little weasel had cultivated a network of spies from New York to L.A. who fed him juicy tidbits about the rich, famous, and misbehaving. Some of them were true; many were embellished.

It was impossible to fully cut off his sources because anyone could be a leak. Hotel maids, gardeners, chauffeurs, random passersby on the street…there were no limits to who could send in an anonymous tip.

Since I couldn’t eliminate his sources, I had to eliminate the reason why people wanted to send tips to him specifically. He didn’t pay them, but for anyone who wanted to expose a celebrity, get back at someone they felt had wronged them, or simply gain the satisfaction of seeing their tip used, they turned to the biggest fish in the pond. People knew Perry had the means to bring their tips to a huge audience, which brought me to the second pillar of his power: his platforms, specifically his blog and his social media.

They were concrete. Tangible. Which meant they could be taken down.

I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed an army, and luckily, I knew exactly where to find one.

A new message popped up in my encrypted server. My heart skipped a beat as I read and reread it.

Confirmed.

For the first time since I’d seen Perry’s blog post, I smiled.

I knew Xavier blamed himself for what happened, but it wasn’t his fault. I didn’t resent him for organizing one of the best days I’d had in a while, but the blog post did light my fire when it came to Perry fucking Wilson.

Next to me, The Fish swam leisurely in his aquarium. Most people preferred cuddly pets like cats and dogs, but I liked having a fish. Our roles were clear, and our worlds never crossed. He stayed in his house; I stayed in mine.

Still, it was nice to have an animate being to talk to when I was home, even when they couldn’t talk back.

“He’s toast,” I told the oblivious goldfish. “I will not rest until that man’s career is reduced to writing cat-food copy for Fast and Furriness.”

The Fish stared at me for a second before swimming away, indifferent to my scheming.

My phone rang, and I was so distracted by visions of Perry sobbing over a bowl of wet cat food that I didn’t check the caller ID before I answered.

“Hello?”

“Sloane.”

The familiar voice dripped ice down my spine. Images of Perry’s bad highlights and signature pink bow tie vanished, replaced by floppy brown hair and blue eyes.

I straightened, my hand closing tight enough around my phone to elicit a small crack.

“Don’t hang up,” Bentley said. “I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but we need to talk.”

CHAPTER 30

Sloane

I should’ve told Bentley to fuck off, but my curiosity won out over anger.

That Sunday, four days after his call, I got out of a cab and walked into a nondescript bar in a remote area of town. It was half past noon, and the bar was empty thanks to the early hour and holiday weekend.

Xavier and I had spent a quiet but cozy Thanksgiving at his place. I’d been nervous about celebrating the holiday together—I hadn’t spent any holiday with any man since Bentley—but thankfully, Xavier didn’t make a big deal out of it. We ate, drank, watched movies, and had sex. On one occasion, he convinced me to play strip poker, which ended with us naked on the floor in about two point five minutes (and it had nothing to do with the cards). Overall, it was exactly what I needed.

The only damper was my meetup with Bentley. I hadn’t told Xavier about it because there was nothing to tell until I figured out what my ex wanted.

So here I was, on a freezing Sunday in the middle of a bar that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Reagan was in office, just to meet the man who’d cheated on me and broken my heart.

I’m an idiot.

Bentley was already waiting for me in a corner booth, his blue polo and clean-shaven face a startling contrast against the grunge decor.

He rose when he saw me. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.”

“Get to the point.” I took the seat opposite his and kept my coat on. I wasn’t planning on staying long. “I’m busy.”

Bentley’s brow pinched as he sat down again. The son of a big-time financier, he possessed the preppy, all-American good looks of a Ralph Lauren model and the arrogance of someone who’d been rich, popular, and good-looking his entire life. He wasn’t used to being treated like an inconvenience, which was too fucking bad because that was what this was.

“It’s Georgia.” To his credit, Bentley recovered from my insult remarkably quickly. “She’s having…difficulties with her pregnancy.”

Of everything I’d expected him to say, that hadn’t been one of them.

I cocked an eyebrow, confusion mingling with a smidge of concern. I despised Georgia as much as one could despise their sister, but I wasn’t a monster.

I was, however, confused as to why her husband was telling me instead of literally anyone else in her orbit.

“Has she seen a doctor?” I asked.

Bentley blinked, then laughed. “No, not medical concerns,” he said. “She and the baby are fine. She’s just been so temperamental. You grew up with her. You know how she can be. She’s constantly screaming at me over the stupidest things, like the other day when I didn’t get her a frozen hot chocolate at three in the morning and she threw a Lalique vase at my head. A Lalique vase. Do you know how expensive that was?”

Any sympathy I had vanished, replaced by an urge to knock Bentley’s head against the wall until an iota of common sense rattled in that thick skull of his.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You called me out here on a holiday weekend to complain about being yelled at?”

“I could’ve died from that vase,” he said defensively. “She’s out of control.”

“She’s pregnant, Bentley, which means she’s growing an entire human inside her. It’s understandable if her hormones get a bit out of control.” Especially when her husband is a shithead.

I couldn’t believe I was defending Georgia, but Bentley had his head so far up his own ass, he could give himself a root canal— preferably without Novocain.