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“Yeah. They’re looking into ways to punish the magazine for printing stolen corporate property. We’ll see if they can make it stick.”
“And this reporter?”
“Ben Shaw is a cockroach, but he didn’t write anything in that article that is blatantly false. The last thing we want to do is have our business aired out in court during a lawsuit. They’ll uncovereverything.” Which Ben surely knows.
“That wouldn’t be ideal.” Ronan rubs a hand over his short hair. “And that bitch from Thursday night?”
“I don’t know what Henry has planned for Roshana yet.” But I’m excited to find out. “If I didn’t have this sale launching on Monday, I would throw my phone away and hide in here for the nextyear, until people forget.”
“Attagirl. Face it head-on.”
“They’re attacking me, Ronan. Over a headline in a magazine they read in the grocery store.” Or one they spotted as they scrolled aimlessly through their feeds. The “news” has grown legs, with dozens of secondhand basement-reporter sites regurgitating Ben Shaw’s article for their own content. “Seriously, don’t these people have lives?”
“No, they don’t. Ignore them. Don’t go looking for it.”
God, he sounds like Henry. “That’s the thing, I’m not!” I pull up Farm Girl’s social media, something I’ve avoided doing forhours. Now? There arehundredsof new comments under posts from the past week. Annie wanted to go private, but Zaheera strongly advised against it. “See?” I pick one to read. “‘I was going to try out this soap because Kendall McCoy said it made her skin feel so amazing, but now that I know the owner is a lying, cheating whore, I’m not giving her my money.’” My insides burn with indignation.
“Who the fuck is Kendall McCoy?”
“An influencer,” I grumble, scrolling. “‘Bitch not happy with her fine-ass man, she gotta get herself one for every day of the week.’”
He snorts. “Okay, that one’s kind of funny.”
I scroll farther. “Oh, this is even better. This person is psychoanalyzing me. According to her, I’m clearly working through commitment issues.” I frown as I read another. “Apparently, I was handing out my soap at a party in Detroit last weekend and it gave her a terrible rash. Why would I be handing out soap at a party inDetroit?”
“People make shit up all the time. You can’t trust anything on there.”
“This one says she was in a sorority with me, and I slept with her boyfriend. Northgate doesn’t have sororities! Oh, here’s one defending me, I think? She says Henry’s the personification of the patriarchal scourge upon society. He deserves to be cheated on. But then this one—”
“Okay, bad idea.” Ronan yanks my phone out of my hand and tosses it to the opposite side of the couch. “Who has time to read a gossip article online, go search up the people, and then leave messages like that? People who have nothing good going on in their lives.” Ronan raises his voice, a rare occurrence. “These people are fuckinglosers.”
“Maybe, but they’re losers who are trying to tank my business before it’s even off the ground.” I pull the blanket over my head.
Light footfalls approach. “What’s going on now?” Violet asks, emerging from the bathroom.
“Abbi looked at something she shouldn’t have,” Ronan says with a sigh.
“Farm Girl,” I moan into the soft weave.
“Did you see all your new followers, though?”
“What?” I peel the blanket halfway down my face.
“Yeah, you have …” Violet holds her phone up to read. “Almost five thousand new followers since yesterday.”
“Seriously?” Maybe Zaheera was right not to lock things down. “Why?”
“No such thing as bad publicity,” Ronan says.
“They’re just coming to watch me fail.”
“Yeah, probably.” Violet shrugs. “But some are curious. They want to know if it’s true.”
“Give them something to shut them all up, then,” Ronan mutters.
“Like what?”
“You riding Wolf’s lap.”
