Page 78 of Rapunzel Is Losing It

“This could still make a great political jumpstart, just saying,” Amani mused a few minutes later, when we were discussing the campaign videos Silas had sent.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“We’ll publish the first video tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

She rattled on about the platforms and what I should expect coming my way consequences wise. Comments. News outlets. Something… something…. Stupid. Ugly. Duffel. Bag.

“Cordelia?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you need me to send you everything in an email, so you can read through it when you’re more focused?”

“I’m sorry.” I pushed my nails deeper into my cheeks, trying to pull myself back into the moment. “I think I got most of it.”

“There’s going to be some attention coming your way. Your face will officially be out there. Are you ready for that?”

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

“There’s always a choice. You can open a center in every state by the end of next year. I mean, you have the money. We can do it all the old-fashioned way. Print more pamphlets. Reach out to social services. We don’t need publicity to help people.”

I rolled my eyes at her silly attempt at reverse psychology. As if I hadn’t thought the whole thing through myself five hundred times already. My discomfort was a small price to pay for the awareness this campaign would generate. And the more women were aware of the foundation, the better. I had been given the chance to help people. What did my discomfort mean in the grand scheme of things?

“I’m good,” I mumbled, “I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, great. I’ll basically be awake for the next 72 hours monitoring this, so reach out if you need any help whatsoever, okay?”

“As your employer, I can’t condone that. Get some sleep. But as myself? Thank you.”

“You got it. Let’s tell the world who we are, huh?”

“Sure,” I breathed and my eyes dropped back to the small camera Silas had left for me.

After hanging up, I turned the camera over in my fingers and replayed the stupid short video I’d taken in the winter garden the other day. It was silly, but the first thought that popped into my head was thatthatCordelia had no idea what it felt like to have Victor’s head between her legs.

My second thought was that, as of tomorrow, everybody would know who I was and what I really looked like.

And my third thought was that everyone already knew what Victor looked like.

I opened a new browser window and typed in two words I hadn’t googled in years:Victor Yelchin.

His comeback fight was one of the first results that popped up. I watched it and flinched at every hit Victor absorbed like it was nothing. I watched it again and compared the commentary to the fight itself. I hit play again and listened to it while scrolling the comments excitedly (albeit sometimes rudely) discussing Victor’s victory. By the fourth time it played, I kept track of the camera. It clearly favored Victor. He was the star in this fight. To the audience, to the camera man, and to the commentators.

The fifth time I watched it, I turned down the volume and just watched Victor’s body move. Covered in ink and sweat, he navigated the octagon like it was his home - and the other guy was nothing but a mouse fated to be trapped. He was astonishing. Biting my lip, I hit play again, and blamed the heat rising to my cheeks on the thick sweater I’d thrown on today.

“Irina?” I called her name when the screen faded to black.

The girl took less than three seconds to swing the door to my office open, hand on the gun on her hip. “Yes?”

“Would you mind picking up some pizza?”

“Victor prepared-”

“I really like this place called Coco’s,” I said before she could reason her way out of it, “I’ll take a four cheese, please. You can get yourself whatever you want.” I fished my wallet from my desk drawer and waved my credit card at her.

“Sure thing, Miss Cordelia,” Irina said and snatched the card from my hand.

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