Page 42 of Going Viral for Christmas
A moment of sexual weakness doesn’t mean anything.
This isn’t personal.
It’s branding.
We follow Renata out of the lounge, down the hall to an aggressively beige room with too much lighting and too little personality. Perfect for selling your soul one bullet point at a time.
Camille greets us and gestures to a tablet sitting on the table. We sit as she flips to a digital press packet, stylus moving in quick, decisive strokes.
“Alright,” Camille begins, eyes bright. “The Bell and The Bladebuzz is white-hot. Your numbers are climbing by the hour. Ava, your book is trending under three different tropes. Soren, your Goodreads page is practically melting. Tonight is the hard launch of you two being a ‘couple.’ Although the internet pretty much made you official after yesterday. Still, the press conference is scheduled for six. We’ve prepped the host, planted a few smart questions, and booked a cozy corner of the courtyard for the post-panel photo ops. After that, I’ll send some assets over to the social media teams. Renata, do you want to go over the interview?”
“Gladly.” Renata taps her pen against her notepad. “You’ll sit down, share how things unexpectedly shifted in your DM’s over the last few months, and then drop that magic word we all agreed on:connection.Don’t say relationship. And for the love of God, stay away from anything that says, ‘exclusive.” You’re not committed. Just ‘connected.’ Leaves room for intrigueandinterpretation.”
Not loving this at all, I grip thecoffee cup a little tighter.
“Afterward,” Camille continues smoothly, “you’ll take a walk through the pumpkin patch outside. There will be fairy lights. Fire pits. A super cute, aesthetically pleasing food truck with mugs of cider. Families, other couples, someone walking their dog, probably. We’ve staged the entire mood.”
“And then,” Renata adds with a wink, “The two of you will walk hand in hand into the hotel and retire in Soren’s suite. Preferably with swoon eyes, Ava. Can you please work on those today?”
“Wait—his suite?” My head swivels between them and Soren. “As in… the room where he sleeps?”
Camille nods, entirely unfazed. “It’s more believable than you heading back to yours.
“That makes no sense,” I counter.
“You’re a couple now, remember?”
“Right. Sure. Totally. Super couple-y,” I mutter through gritted teeth, heart rate spiking. “Because nothing says believable romance more than swanning into a man’s hotel suite after one panel and a dinner that was less date night, more emotional hostage situation.”
Renata steps in. “Ava, the internet already thinks you’re halfway to a shared toothbrush. Don’t ruin the magic with logic.”
I gape at her. “You want me to casually wander into his room like I’m auditioning for a holiday soft porn calledCider & Sex?”
Camille lights up. “That’s actually a great title.”
Soren chuckles. “We could go full hard-core porn, if you prefer.”
My breakfast threatens to resurface. “Not funny.”
Renata points a perfectly manicured finger at me. “That energy? All that sass and sarcasm is what we need. Channel it. Use it. Just with less panic and more bedroom eyes.”
“Do bedroom eyes come with a user manual? Or do I blink slower and hope for the best?” I ask.
Soren peers at me over the rim of his own coffee.
This isn’t happening.
While I’m trying to wrap my brain around this entire nightmare, another woman steps into the room—tall, angular, and terrifying in the most sophisticated way possible, her blonde hair scraped into a bun sotight it could slice diamonds, and her expression could cut someone down at the knees from a hundred yards away.
Dressed in a tailored black blazer that I know cost more than my entire college tuition, she carries a leather portfolio that probably doubles as a blunt-force weapon.
I’d know this woman anywhere. A massive sigh of relief exits my lungs.
“Victoria Hartwell,” she announces, extending a perfectly manicured hand to Soren. “Ava’s agent.”
Taking it, he only half-masks the wince. Her handshake has the energy of a corporate chokehold.
At only thirty years old, Victoria Hartwell is a legend. An agent who closes seven-figure deals between spin classes, dismantles predatory contracts over kale salads, and has been known to reduce senior editors to tears using only a Post-it and a glare. Having her on your side is adjacent to hiring a legal assassin in Louboutins.
