Page 27 of Going Viral for Christmas
See? Judgy.
“I’m not crashing.”
“You’re doing the thing where your brain over-stirs and your inner monologue gets mean.”
I scowl. “My inner monologue is always mean.”
“Yeah, except now it’s directing all the anger inward.” Both hands gesture toward his chest.
“You’re right. I’m angry. At Soren. At our publicists. At myself. I’m part of this whole manipulative charade, and we’re supposed to act as though it’s all okay. It’s not okay.”
Fisher’s expression folds, the snark stripped back to bare concern. “Ava?—”
“We’re using fake affection for clicks and comments and virality, and painting it as a perfectly acceptable marketing strategy. It’s crooked, Fisher. It’s deceitful. I mean, how did I get here? Why is this stupid stunt necessary? Worse, why am I doing it with someone who clearly has no shame playing into it?”
Fisher lets the silence sit heavy for a beat, then says it plainly.“He brings the numbers. Whether you like it or not, Bell and the Blade is the type of story people eat alive.”
He right. And I hate that.
“Admit it, deep down, part of you wants the world to see him looking at you like you’re a riddle he intends to solve.”
“Fisher, that’s not—” I start, but stop. The protest tastes bitter on my tongue. I shake my head, forcing steel into my voice. “So the only way my career survives is through him?”
Fisher plops backward against his chair. “No, Luv, of course not. But think about the what if’s?”
What if?
Those two words throw an even bigger coup in my brain. Because…
What if it works? What if it doesn’t?
What if I sell more books, gain more followers, boost my brand, but what if I lose the part of myself I actually like in the process?
What if all this pretend affection and flirty manipulation starts to affect me?
What if the Dagger Daddy Fan Club comes for me?
What if I become someone I don’t recognize? Or someoneIwouldn’t respect—someone who sells intimacy as merch. Flirts for metrics. Trades integrity for trends, all in the name of the almighty algorithm.
Someone like Soren “Whoren” Pembry.
I’ve officially stooped to his level. I want to scream into a throw pillow and then immediately light it on fire. I can’t be like him.
That ballroom was Soren’s personal colosseum. He didn’t casually stroll in—heownedthe room. Worked the crowd. The women. Theylovedit.
How much of that was real? How much of it was a calculated performance? He can’t bethatfake. Right?
Those questions, unfortunately, bring me to a more unbalanced one.
“Uh oh,” Fisher’s voice cuts in. “What storm is swirling inside that beautiful, overthinking brain of yours?”
I hesitate before asking, “How much pussy do you think Soren Pembry actually pulls?”
Fisher looks genuinely surprised by the question.
“Because statistically, it’s gotta be disturbing.” I wave my hands fast, like I can physically swat it away. “No, I don’t want to know.”
Fisher grins sardonically. “And that's the worst part, isn’t it, Ava?”
