Page 74 of Divine Temptations

I sighed. Rolled out of bed. Landed on a pile of laundry with a muffled oof. The apartment looked like someone had broken in and robbed me of all dignity. The floor was a crime scene of coffee mugs, balled-up socks, and empty takeout cartons.

Dragging myself upright felt like lifting a dead body. My own.

I peeled on a black t-shirt that smelled only slightly of shame, found a pair of mostly clean jeans, and tried to remember how humans looked when they were alive.

In the mirror, I looked like a feral raccoon. My hair was tousled, eyes hollow, mouth twisted in a permanent scowl.

Claudia was going to kill me.

Or worse, ask me what happened.

And I didn’t know what I’d tell her.

That I’d traveled all the way to Riverbend to expose a snake oil preacher, and instead caught feelings? That I’d kissed the guy, tried to undress him, and got shut down like a drunk groomsman at a lesbian wedding?

That I couldn’t stop thinking about him?

No, I couldn’t tell her any of that.

I was going to have to lie.

Or spin. Or... do that thing I do on the podcast. Talk fast, deflect, sound smart enough that no one asks about the soft, pathetic underbelly twitching underneath the performance.

Because the truth?

I wasn’t just humiliated.

I was hurt.

And I hated that even more.

The reception area at Jameson & Lewis looked like a place where dreams came to die. A vast white room with low modern furniture, everything reeked of quiet judgment and citrus air freshener. I sat on the edge of a leather bench, chewing my thumbnail into a jagged crescent, imagining Claudia back there in her glass lair, sipping something green and bitter while plotting my slow, excruciating demise.

It had been an hour.

An hour of pointedly not looking at the receptionist, who’d given me a Botoxed smile when I walked in and hadn’t blinked since. She was now filing her nails with a focus reserved for bomb defusal or brain surgery.

This was a power play. I knew it. Claudia Jameson didn’t just make you wait, she made you stew.

Finally, the receptionist looked up, cocked her head like a suspicious parakeet, and said, “She’ll see you now.”

The door to Claudia’s office slid open like the gates of hell. I walked in, shoulders hunched, trying to project a casual confidence that was completely missing from my insides.

Claudia was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed, looking like a dominatrix version of a Greek statue in monochrome Armani.

“Sit,” she said, without turning around.

I sat.

Silence.

More silence.

She pivoted slowly on one heel, arched an eyebrow so high it could’ve punctured the ceiling, and said, “Remind me, Julian—why did I invest money in your podcast?”

I blinked. “Uh…”

“Wrong.” She walked toward her desk like a panther who smelled blood. “Try again. Why did I give you, a walking red flag with a YouTube history that should come with a parental advisory, actual, non-theoretical money?”