Page 196 of Going Viral for Christmas
I’m mad at myself for ever signing on to do it. For dragging him down. And for falling for him so fast, and hard, and socompletelythat I forgot to protect either of us from my curse.
Emily keeps reminding me that if I hadn’t agreed to the fake dating scheme, I never would’ve been with Soren. She’s right. That doesn’t make this pain any less cutting.
A log shifts in the fireplace. I flinch.
Emily glances over from her dual monitors, chewing the end of a pencil. “Uh, Ava? You might want to come see this.”
Groaning, I drag myself from my cocoon. “If that’s another of your DM’s from that dude namedFeralFucker, I’m not emotionally equipped.”
She snorts but stands, motioning me toward her chair. Her screen is split.
On the left: a private chat thread with someone namedBrandDom4U. And the profile pic is a man, neck down, wearing a black power suit, crisp white dress shirt, black tie, and what isvery clearlya riding crop in his hand.
I don’t ask. I’ve learned.
On the right monitor is Soren.
My breath catches. He’s standing on the cliff where we danced. Bundled in a camel-colored coat, hair whipping in the wind, eyes locked on the screen, staring straight at the camera. Straight at me
A livestream.
ShelfSpace.
Over fifty thousand people are watching. And counting.
Emily nudges the volume up. I sit. Frozen. Heart in my throat.
Soren’s there. I’m here.
He’s talking.
To them.
To me.
Thirty-Seven
SOREN
After writing Ava’s last letter, I stared at that paper until the words blurred, the ache in my chest pulsed, syncing to every sentence.
And then… It hit me.
A terrible, reckless, probably-doomed idea.
I put down that letter. And I started to plan.
Fast-forward a few days and here I am—outside, freezing my nuts off on the same snow-covered cliff where I first slow-danced with the love of my life in the middle of a flurry, with city lights on the horizon, and a sky full of stars and hope.
Matthew is beside me, wearing a down jacket and gloves. His expression screamsI hate this, but I love you, so I’m here. He’s holding my phone with a cautious thumb hovering over the livestream button.
“You sure about this?” He eyes me. “I think you’ve fully lost it.”
“Nope. Not sure at all. And you’re right.” I rub my hands together for warmth. “But when has that ever stopped me?”
He mutters words under his breath about me being a walking liability and a poetry-reading lunatic, but he hits the button anyway.
“And we’re live.”
