Page 344 of The Doctors Will See You Now

“I’m one hundred percent sure that you’re the one who emailed me that article.”

“This is completely fucked, Stella! I didn’t write this. Take it off the site now!”

She frowned. “That article is the talk of the day at every news source in the city, Harlow. You should be proud of it, not feeling guilty.”

“Proud of it?” I exclaimed in frustration. “That article is bullshit, Stella. All of those accusations are untrue. If anything, that article is a lawsuit for Gossip waiting to happen.”

Her brow popped up in surprise at the word lawsuit.

I guess I’m finally speaking her fucking language.

“Wait…you really didn’t write it?”

“I. Didn’t. Write. It,” I responded. “Those are not my words, Stella. I sent a completely different article to your email that you should’ve received yesterday around eight in the morning.”

“But I received this column two days ago.”

“I was still writing my fucking column two days ago!”

She scrutinized my steadfast gaze before muttering, “Fuck,” and picking up her phone. Her finger tapped a speed dial button, and she held the receiver to her ear.

“Dave,” she greeted. “I need you to look into Harlow Paige’s email account. Check all outgoing messages for me over the past seventy-two hours and see if you note anything suspicious.”

After a few nerve-racking moments, she glanced up at me with concern creasing the corners of her normally evil eyes.

“Really?” she asked into the receiver. “Two days ago…? Uh-huh… She says the last article about Scott Shepard wasn’t from her… It came from a different IP address? Can you do some kind of search to find out…” Her words bled into a hum as my mind reeled.

Hacked. That’s what a different IP address had to mean, right?

It was literally the only thing that made sense.

Jesus Christ. Who would do this to me? Why couldn’t they just send me fictitious emails about being a Nigerian Prince and needing money?

Why ruin my reputation, and more importantly, Scott’s life?

He was all I could think about in that moment. I didn’t give a fuck about myself or what that article could potentially mean for my career.

I just cared about him. I loved him. I wanted the best for him. And this, well, this fucking article that had been published was the absolute worst.

Had he seen it? Was he okay?

I could only stand in her office for so long before the urge to sprint to Scott’s apartment was too strong. Without another word, I turned for the hall and ran toward the elevator.

I had to get to him. I had to make this okay again.

But after sprinting across the city like a madwoman and pounding my arrival against the door to his apartment with my fist, when the door opened, what I was greeted with on the other side made it very clear that everything was the opposite of okay.

It was all completely fucked.

As the detective swung open the door of my apartment, time stood still and Harlow stood on the other side. Drenched in fresh tears and wild with sweat and anguish, she bounced her eyes off of the detective in horror, only to land on the two uniformed officers standing with me.

Three hours since the article had made its splash in the shark-infested waters of New York City, and my entire life had been dismantled.

I’d met with the board immediately, and while they’d been professionally cautious and respectful, I’d been suspended pending an investigation. They were keeping it in-house they’d said, waiting for any allegations from victims to come forward and looking through each and every one of my case files for signs of malpractice before making permanent changes to my position—aka: firing me for fucking forever.

Victims.

Chaos tortured my mind better than any dripping water ever could. If ever there was a time to be clearheaded, I’d have thought this was it. But I couldn’t seem to hold on to a single thought long enough to analyze it for fucking anything.