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LIA

I woke to my phone blowing up like a four-alarm fire—and for once, it wasn’t because of me.

There were innumerable calls and texts from Arnold—I hadn’t read or listened to any of them—but then this morning there was a call from Trevia.

Had I…ruined things?

With my little unscripted show on live?

I ignored everything else and called her back. “Trev?” I said, when she picked up, and I heard the relief in her voice as she answered.

“Lia!”

“Yes?” I popped her on speakerphone and looked at my other phone.

I’d gotten a sweet good night note from Rhaim, and another one this morning—if she was calling me, it wasn’t because of him.

“Uh—” Trevia began, which made me nervous—I couldn’t imagine her being lost for words. “Have you seen any news today?”

“Oh God. What now?”

“No—no—let me close my door—” she said, and I heard her move around her office.

I frowned at that phone’s screen. “What’s happened?” I pressed, while beginning to hop onto other social media.

The same sites that had crucified me on Wednesday had already moved on—to Marcus’s son.

“Senator’s Son in Sleaze Spiral: Drug, Death, and Depravity in Downtown Garage” and “From Ivy League to IV Drip: Zane St. Clair in Hospitalized After Overdose Scene”—a more tame one said “Alleged Narcotics Transaction Ends in Violence for Senator’s Son”.

“Oh, shit,” I whispered.

“Oh shit is right,” Trevia agreed. “Look—there’s going to be people pounding down the door outside your father’s party tonight, wanting to get a good look at you and Marcus. I advise you to come separately—or maybe the family will get lucky, and Marcus won’t come at all? Have you heard anything?”

“I just got up,” I said. “But—don’t I have any morality clauses on my side of the pre-nup?” I asked her. “Can’t we choose to enforce them?”

I heard her breathe thoughtfully. “Yes. But. You’re not paying me.”

By which she meant everything was up to my father.

Surely though…Zane getting hospitalized…for heroin? I learned as I scrolled quickly, And then being around a corpse ? —

The scenario had Rhaim’s fingerprints all over it—but I knew he was too smart to leave any actual ones.

“I’ll talk to him.”

“You do that. But in the meantime—don’t talk to anyone else, all right? If anyone from Marcus’s camp wants you, tell them you’re filtering your PR through me—and please, please, stay off of Instagram.”

“Understood,” I said curtly, hung up, and picked up Rhaim’s phone.

What do you get for the man who has everything?

Tonight, I won’t be wearing .

I sent him.

Speedos?

he quickly texted back—with a laughing emoji.

If Rhaim Selvaggio was using an emoji, I knew I’d gotten him good.

Precisely

I sent him back, with a kiss.

I spent the rest of the day in a joyous blur.

I went and got a blowout and pretended to shop.

Any time someone tried to talk to me and I wasn’t interested, I waved them off with a gracious hand, without saying a word.

I felt bad about not keeping my promise to go back on Live, but I didn’t want to give Trevia a heart attack.

Surely my new “fans” understood—but I was also sure photos of me, living my life in spite of the St. Clair family tragedy, would also make it into the papers.

As long as I wasn’t saying anything, I didn’t see why either side needed to approve it.

It wasn’t my fault that me just still breathing counted as a public affair.

And it wouldn’t have been—if my Uncle hadn’t pushed his hand.

That was the other reason I needed to go outside.

I didn’t want Freddie Sr. thinking I was holed up in my apartment, nervously pacing and biting my cuticles, worried about seeing him.

Don’t get me wrong—I mean, a part of me would always be.

Horrible things couldn’t happen so early in your childhood without you being changed by them.

But I liked my now.

And after what Rhaim had done for me last night, I couldn’t love him any harder.

I could practically see the light at the end of the tunnel and feel a breeze wafting over me.

I went back to my apartment, washed my face, read, and then got ready.