Page 191 of Going Viral for Christmas
Renata exhales through her nose. “There are over a hundred thousand comments. ShelfSpace is having a meltdown. Half of them believe it’s all a scam. The other half are defending you like it’s their full-time job.”
I run a hand down my face. “Unbelievable. Matthew, get that Patreon taken down. Now!”
Fisher’s eyes bounce between us. “We need to respond. Immediately. Preferably before the New York Times gets wind of it.”
Ava is staring at the screen as though Lena’s voice climbed out of the speakers and slapped her across the face. And despite everything, all I want is to pull her into my lap and whisper that we’ll fix this. Together. This isn’t only about the photo booth. It’s about whether the world believes inus. It’s her livelihood and her career reputation on the line.
Still, Ava isn’t crying. I don’t see a hint of rage in her expression. She hasn’t even screamed. Like I am on the inside.
She stands there, pale-faced, seemingly in a state of shock. Then she whispers, “I need a minute.”
“Ava—”
“No.” Her voice cracks—it’s not breaking, but it’s being held together by force and sheer will. “I need a minute, Soren. Alone.”
I watch her as she slowly exits the hotel room. I want to follow. Fuck, every muscle in my body is pushing me to chase her out that door, stand in that hallway with her, and make this right. But I saw the way her fingers trembled as they wrapped around the doorknob, and pushing right now will only make it worse.
So I let her go. And thenIunravel. Yep, in front of everyone.
Twenty minutes later, I’ve chewed every nail down to the quick—and I’m not even a nail biter. I’m also two whiskeys in. It’s not even ten a.m.
The room still smells like her. Peppermint. Vanilla. Sex and sadness. The clothes she wore the night before are draped across the chair like a ghost.
I can’t sit still. I can’t breathe right. So I go looking.
First, I check the lobby.
Nothing.
Then the café. The bookstore nook. The little lounge across from the elevators, where she sometimes hides when she needs quiet. I even checked the rooftop terrace and that stupid faux igloo setup from the influencer dinner. Nada.
“She’s not in the room?” Camille asks, scrolling her phone for clues, oblivious to the fact that Ava left at all.
“She never came back here,” Renata confirms.
“Maybe she needed air,” Matthew says, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “Did you check outside?”
I call the front desk and talk to them again. They tell me a woman wearing a bathrobe walked out the main entrance forty-five minutes ago. Alone. No coat. No bag. No clue where she went.
My blood runs cold. And for the first time since this whole thing started, I feel an emotion I don’t know how to write through.
Panic.
Ava Bell didn’t walk away. She fucking vanished.
Thirty-Five
SOREN
It’s been a week since the world split open.
Seven days.
One hundred sixty-eight hours.
Ten thousand, eighty minutes since Ava Bell disappeared like smoke from the air.
And yes, I’ve counted every fucking one.
