Page 24 of Going Viral for Christmas
I ordered a chai martini, hoping for something strong enough to taste like fall and mild self-destruction.
I love my publicist, truly—she’s exceptionalat her job and wants the best for me. But that doesn’t mean she’s always right. As much as I trust her, I don’t trustthis.Not when my name is on the line.
Victoria will fix this. She’s a bulldog in designer heels. A terrifying, whip-smart advocate who shreds contracts for sport.
She’ll do the same to this one.
Except she hasn’t replied yet. What if she agrees with the plan? No, think positive. She’s just super busy sharpening her teeth to find an out for me.
God, please let that be the case.
After two drinks, Fisher joins.
When we move to grab a table, Renata excuses herself.
“Gotta go work on some of the logistics with Camille for tonight’s soft launch,” she says, slinging her purse over her thin, bony shoulder. “Ava, you must be present in the comments. It’s your number one top priority. Understand?”
Nodding, I decide not to tell her that I’m two seconds from Googling “how to fake your own death and disappear before a fake dating contract goes viral.”
As Fisher and I follow the hostess to our table I check my phone again. Still nothing. If Victoria doesn’t answer, Googling might actually become Plan A.
The hotel restaurant is all rustic chic and forced tranquility, featuring cornucopia centerpieces, amber lighting, and instrumental jazz playing overhead; everything is built to convince you that peace can be manufactured.
It’s not working. My chest is tight, my thoughts won’t stop circling, and my stomach feels like it’s hosting a corn maze made of dread. I am not calm. I am not okay.
Sitting here, about to have a perfectly normal meal with Fisher, pretending that I am, feels like I’m throwing thin fabric over something still thrashing underneath.
I’ve spent almost two years carefully cultivating a routine of control and predictability. And now I’ve willingly walked into a stunt designed to implode it all.
Once seated, the waiter takes our orders. Maple-glazed pork chop for me, and Fisher goes full drama with the trufflerisotto.
“It pairs well with unrequited love and a chilled rosé.” He drapes a napkin over his lap and takes a sip of said rosé.
I order another chai martini, swallow it down like it might quiet the noise, and gesture for the next. Fisher’s gaze tracks me the way one might watch someone step willingly into quicksand.
Thankfully, the food comes out fast. I need something in my stomach before the chai martinis convince me to start trauma-dumping in public.
Fisher digs right into his. “Delicious.”
Cutting a piece of pork chop, I shovel it into my mouth and grumble.
“What’s wrong?” Fisher asks. “Is it not cooked right?”
“No, it’s perfect,” I whine through a mouthful. “But I can’t enjoy a single bite. All I want to do is crawl under the table, curl up in a napkin cocoon, and cry into a breadbasket. I don’t even need a reason. Just five solid minutes of ugly crying and an emotional support breadstick.”
My assistant rolls his eyes. “Ava, it’s fake dating, not a hostage situation. You’ll survive the comments and a few photo ops. Now eat your feelings like a normal person.”
“This online nemesis thing I have with Soren Pembry was never supposed to turn into something personal.”
“Until it did,” Fisher retorts.
I groan, thinking back to how this all started. I made a tiny throwaway post during a late-night doom scroll. It was a satirical “Dear Fantasy Authors” rant, centered on howsomecharacters from the fantasy genre have the emotional range of a teaspoon.
I never mentioned Soren by name, but if the emotionally-stunted warlord boot fits…
His fans lost it. They mass-reported and ShelfSpace tagged me for “slanderous content.”
Soren responded with a video of him reading a steamy scene from my book,The Lumberjack’s Love Letters,using an overly dramatic gruff voice. And since humiliation is a layered art form, after that, he followed it up with a second take: suspenders hanging low, shirtless, a ridiculous wind machine blowing through his cheap romance-cover wig as thoughhe was shooting a woodsy Fabio reboot. The man even had the audacity to rub sawdust across his abs for “authenticity.”
