I walk slowly, a little further behind, as if I’m on my way to the gallows for my reckoning.
We drive home in silence, me letting out the odd sigh and shaking my head. Soren glances at me during the drive, his hand never leaving mine, his grip steady.
If he wasn’t holding me I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t want to find out. His touch the only thing holding me together right now.
Later, back at the apartment, I reply to all my clients, one by one, trying desperately to explain myself. Begging them to reconsider in the circumstances. Surely, at least a few of them will understand that this is just one big misunderstanding.
But to no avail. Nobody will budge.
“It’s best we distance ourselves from you at this time.”
“Thank you for your support to date, Ivy, but we think it’s better if we’re no longer affiliated.”
The message is clear—I’m done.
I’m devastated. Crushed.
I’ve put countless hours, weeks, months,yearsinto this business, building it up from scratch and establishing a strongreputation amongst my clients for the best quality of social media support.
They’ve trusted my strategy, being on the cutting edge of new trends. And they know I deliver what I promise—a reliable social media manager—which can be hard to find in this business.
I sigh.
Goddamn fucking trolls.
Someone did this.
I wish I’d gone back through and scrubbed my social media. I do, regularly, just in case. Because in this day and age you can’t be too careful. But I guess I missed this one post, lurking on a platform long since forgotten.
And the internet stays. With time, it twists. Time itself twists, too. What was relevant—of the moment, totally innocent—ages and becomes something ugly.
Information emerges about people with whom you once associated, that you would absolutely never condone in a million years—even had it come to light back then. But the timing doesn’t matter—it’s presented as if they are present-day BFFs, the photos of you together circulating as if they had just been snapped.
I sigh. This is futile.
It’s not something I planned for. And certainly not something I can hope to just bounce back from.
Well, I guess it’s back to the drawing board with my entire career.
Maybe I can provide anonymous support, get some low-key contract work on one of those freelancer apps.
But even if I can bounce back from this at some point, it won’t be any time soon. We’re talking years at minimum.
I throw my phone onto the couch in frustration and it bounces on the plush cushion and crashes onto the floor where it skitters along, finally settling at the base of a potted plant.
Tears slide down my cheeks. Slow and silent at first, but then turning into loud, wracking sobs.
There’s no fixing this.
Everything I worked so hard for, down the drain over something so stupid.
“Hey,” Soren says, his voice soft as he comes and sits beside me, wrapping an arm around me and squeezing my shoulder. He wipes my tears away with the back of his hand, his eyes boring into mine. “It’s going to be okay, Ivy. Don’t worry about money. I’ve got you. You don’t need anyone else. We’ll figure this situation out together. I’ll handle it.”
His reassurance and lack of judgment carry me through.
He’s the constant when everything else feels like it’s swirling around me. Like I’m standing in an amusement park ride in slow motion watching lights spin and people screaming. It’s dizzying, but he’s my anchor, holding me firm.
My sobs finally abate, and I walk to the bathroom to dry my eyes.