Sam’s eyebrows travel up her forehead again before she drops them and starts making kissy faces. I turn away from her.
“Hey, Arch,” he says. “Did you see the post from You Oughta Know that just went out?”
My stomach drops. “No. What did she say?”
“It’s not good. She’s done a full breakdown about how it was clearly written by PR and not River and Bailey.”
I grumble. “I hate that woman.” For this and for the fact that her assessment was right: PRdidwrite that statement. She’s so annoying.
Luke chuckles. “Do we need to come up with a plan of attack or give itmore time?”
I think about that. If we do something now, it will feel performative. But if we wait, the narrative sets. And once it sets, it’s even harder to shift. Maybe even impossible.
There’s really no good move here.
“I have no idea,” I tell him honestly.
“I think we should wait a bit longer,” he says. “See if sentiment shifts.”
“Okay, let’s wait,” I say. It might be the only move we have right now.
Waiting looks like me watching Brandwatch like a hawk, getting texts from Tessa with links to other posts saying basically the same thing as You Oughta Know’s, talking down Bailey when she sees what’s happening online, and going back and forth with Luke about what we could do next.
By the end of the day, when the narrative has only shifted more to You Oughta Know’s perspective and Victoria sends an email with just one line—“What’s the plan?”—we wave the white flag.
Me:Time for plan B. Any ideas?
Jerkwad:Nope. You?
Me:I’ve got nothing. Meet tomorrow?
Jerkwad:I’ll come to your officein the morning.
The next morning, after I get Luke clearance into the building, we sit in the conference room, known as the war room at Harrow & Finch.
“It’s weird to be back here,” Luke says, looking around. He’s wearing a light-gray suit that makes his bright-blue eyes pop, and he has that same spicy scent.
The war room is nothing like the intimidating one at Silverline, with its massive table and dim lighting. The name isn’t even fitting for our space, which has bright overhead lighting and is decorated in warm tones. It’s just what everyone has always called it.
The dark wood table is large, with plenty of room for us to spread out, yet Luke took the seat right next to me. I’m guessing to share my laptop, but his nearness is making me feel . . . strange.
I was already softening toward him—I can admit that much. But finding out that the war I’d been waging against him in my head was largely one sided? That’s harder to process. You can’t just dismantle a two-year grudge overnight.
“I should go say hi to Simone when we’re done,” he says, leaning back in his chair, settling in. “Is she around today?”
“Actually, no,” I tell him. “She’s out.”
He furrows his brow, not understanding. “Out where? Like out of town for work? Do you remember when she called me mid-flight about the Hayden James footage?”
“I do remember that,” I say, laughing. TMZ had released the police footage of a DUI involving the massively famous singer Simone worked with, just as she got on her flight. We were all scrambling.
“I could hear the flight attendant yelling at her to hang up,” he says.
I shake my head. The woman has done some questionable things in the name of PR.
“She’s not out of town, actually,” I tell him. “She’s taking some time off.”
“Time off? Is she okay?” he asks, concern in his voice.
