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After the panel aired, the internet did what the internet does: it lost its mind. Clips went viral—duets, stitches, dramatic readings. Team Adrian. Team Emily. Team 'Please Just Kiss Already.' Apparently, someone had made a thirst edit of us arguing, set to a slowed-down Dua Lipa track. Tragic.

So when I got the invite to a networking mixer hosted by the production company, I knew exactly what it was: orchestrated tension. Optics. PR candy. Put us in a room again and let the cameras hunt for chemistry.

The event is at a rooftop bar in Midtown—the kind of place where everyone pretends they just happened to look amazing.

String lights, ambient music, curated cocktails named things like 'The Soft Launch.

' Too many men in sneakers and blazers. Just enough sheen to feel important.

And then Adrian Zayne strolls in, perfectly timed. Like someone said 'action.'

Adrian is already there when I arrive. Of course he is. Holding court near the bar, laughing at something a woman in a leather jumpsuit says, hand resting lightly on the back of her chair. It's not quite touching. But it's definitely there. Just enough to register.

He sees me. His smile widens.

"Emily," he says, lifting his glass like we’re co-conspirators, not ideological enemies. "Still dangerous, I hope."

I smile back, tight and professional. "Only in heels."

He chuckles. Steps closer. “Good. Would’ve been disappointed if you went soft on me.”

I’m not sure if that’s a flirt or a jab or both. Probably both.

We make small talk. Someone hands me a drink I didn’t ask for. Adrian leans against the high-top like he’s posing for a lifestyle blog. His questions are curious, personal, and too smooth.

"How long have you been coaching?" turns into "What made you want to fix people?" turns into "Do you ever let anyone see past the brand?"

At some point, someone with a camera circles by—probably a social media manager with delusions of TMZ. As if on cue, Adrian shifts closer. Not too much. Just enough that when the shutter clicks, his hand casually touches the small of my back.

I stiffen. He smiles like it’s nothing. Like we’re just two charming professionals sharing a moment of collegial chemistry.

But then it happens again.

Different angle. Different glass in his hand. Same subtle touch. Same flash of his teeth. I swear I see him glance at the photographer before he leans in and murmurs something low enough that it won’t be captured—just implied.

That’s when the alarms start going off in my head.

He’s not flirting. He’s documenting.

I sip my drink. Keep my body angled slightly away. Every answer I give is a half-truth wrapped in a smile. Because I know what he’s doing.

The cameras might buy it. I don’t.

***

Later that night, I call Jessie .

She answers on the third ring with a groan and a “Do you know what time it is?”

“According to Instagram? Time to ship me with a man I verbally dismantled on national livestream.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay,” she says. “That’s fair. Proceed.”

I flop backward on my bed, phone balanced to my ear. “They’re making edits, Jessie. Slow zooms. One’s set to a sepia filter and an acoustic Beyoncé cover. This is not good for me.”

“Emily, it’s amazing for you. You doubled your following. Your podcast is trending. People are stitching you, quoting you, even thirsting over you a little. That one girl with the shaved head called you ‘the feminist Loki.’”

“That’s not the win you think it is,” I mutter, but fine—I’ve saved that video.

“This is literally the best thing that’s ever happened to your platform. Controversy drives traffic. He gave you a gift.”

“A gift? Jessie. He manipulated the panel. He touched my back mid-photo op—”

“Of course he did.”

“—and angled his whole body toward me like we were in a shampoo commercial. Do you know how many frame-by-frame breakdowns there are of that?”

I nearly slam my phone screen-down on the table.

“Yeah,” she says. “Some of them are... honestly kind of romantic.”

I make a sound that can only be described as a full-body eye-roll. “I was trying to dismantle a system and he was live-producing a shipping montage. ”

Jessie grins. “Well, mission accomplished. Because now you’re both trending. Joint virality. That’s rare.”

“I don’t want to be co-packaged with him like we’re some nightmare his-and-hers brand.”

She tilts her head. “But it’s a good brand.”

“I was trying to expose him, not end up starring in a slow-mo thirst edit.”

“You do realize you’re going viral?”

“Oh don’t even. I’m the punchline in his sales funnel.”

“You’re the main character in a narrative you didn’t write. That’s still better than most people.”

I roll onto my side. “Why are you being calm? You’re never calm. Where’s the outrage? The righteous judgment? The extremely specific memes?”

There’s a long pause.

Then she sighs. “I’m too broke for principles tonight.”

I blink at the ceiling. “Jessie...”

“I overdrew my checking account buying a reusable water bottle. I thought sustainability was supposed to pay off.”

I try not to laugh. Fail. “Your bank account died for the planet. Brave.”

We’re quiet for a moment.

Then she clears her throat. “So. On that note... I applied for a job.”

“Okay,” I say, cautious.

“A bunch of jobs. Mostly depressing ones. But there’s one you’re really gonna love.”

That tone. The one she uses when she knows I’m going to hate something.

“Jessie. ”

She pauses. “Just don’t freak out.”

“Jessie—”

“I applied to Zayne Media.”

“WHAT...” I sit bolt upright. “You can’t. You literally can’t. He’s the algorithm’s gift to fragile men. He’s the Big Oil of gender dynamics.”

“He’s also hiring an assistant. And I... need groceries.”

I flail so hard I almost drop the phone. “So what, you’re just going to sell out?”

“If selling out means having dental again, I’ll consider it.”

I bury my face in a pillow. “You can’t work for him.”

“Why not? He’s a CEO with a budget and—God help me—benefits.”

“But it’s him !”

“I’ve applied to seventeen jobs this week, Em. I’m one spreadsheet away from monetizing my panic attacks.”

There’s a long pause. I can hear her breathing. I hate that it sounds like mine.

“You know he won’t hire you,” I mutter.

Jessie goes quiet. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Not because you’re not qualified! Because he’s Adrian Zayne. He doesn’t hire women unless they’re props or set dressing.”

“Maybe he’s trying to diversify.”

I roll my eyes. “Doubtful.”

“Maybe he needs someone to keep him in check.”

“Oh my god,” I say, laughing bitterly. “And you think you’re going to be that person?”

“I don’t see you offering me a job,” she shoots back.

Silence .

“Yeah,” she adds. “Didn’t think so.”

“I’m sorry, is this my fault now?”

“No,” she says. “But it’s hard being broke and principled when the only one paying for it is me.”

My chest aches. “I hope your onboarding packet comes with a coupon for internalized misogyny.”

“I hope yours comes with a therapist. Because girl—”

“I know, I’m spiraling.”

We both fall silent again.

Finally, she says softly, “You’ll be okay, Em.”

“Not if you start quoting him at brunch.”

“Just... don’t hate me if I try to survive.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t. I just hate that this is what survival looks like.”

Another pause. Then she says, “Same.”

I hang up. Crawl into bed. Stare at the ceiling.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m still replaying his laugh.

And I hate that too.