Chapter Fifty-Two
Griffin
“So next Wednesday, we’ll be visiting Silicone Dream and you’ll do your presentations in front of the executives. I expect you to exceed my expectations.”
Some of the kids groan, while some look determined. The ones that didn’t do well on the midterm, which is about eighty percent of the class, know that this is their chance at redemption. That’s why I made it extra credit rather than part of the final. If we’re going to waste Sierra’s time, I want these kids to put in the effort.
“Any questions?”
No hands go up. I dismiss the class and walk to my office. As I unlock the door and step inside, my phone on the desk pings.
–Noah: Did you see this?
A link to a Hollywood gossip site is attached.
–Me: You know I don’t read that trash.
–Noah: It’s trash about your mother. They have your picture, too. Just wanted to mention it so you’d be prepared.
My picture?Panic clenches my heart, hard. What the hell? I do everything to avoid being attached to her and Dad—and whatever crap they get themselves into. I have a reputation to protect. How am I going to get any respect if people find out I attend birthday parties with dick cannons?
I click the link and read the so-called “article.” Apparently, Mom had a huge public scene with Fabio in Milan yesterday. He screamed at her at a restaurant, accusing her of using him. Which is rich, coming from him, considering he was hoping to utilize her connection to Dad to break into the movie business.
Apparently, he became so angry he threw wine on her. Which, unfortunately, turned her dress translucent, and she wasn’t wearing a bra. Of course, the article has a picture of her nipples showing through. I really didn’t need to see that.
Scrolling to move the picture out of view, I keep reading and note with approval that Mom slapped him in return.
Fabio accused her of cheating on him with other men. The article has two pictures: one with her leaving with another man—which explains why she hasn’t called—and another of me and Mom in the hotel lobby in Tokyo. No picture of me sitting there with Sierra, naturally. That would change the narrative.
The only good thing is that the angle of the shot makes it hard to see my face. But the photo gives credence to Fabio’s claim, and makes people speculate about who Mom’s “mystery lover” is in the comment section.
A sickening feeling congeals in my gut. I should’ve known better than to talk to Mom in a well-trafficked public space like in the lobby. I’ve always managed to avoid getting photographed by paparazzi—especially with my parents—because I’ve been extremely careful.
–Noah: That’s you in the pic, right?
–Me: Yes.
–Noah: How can they link you to your mom romantically? That’s sick.
–Me: No shit. Thanks for the heads-up. Hopefully this blows over and nobody figures out it’s me in the photo.
–Noah: Yeah. Luckily, you’re pretty incognito. Not even people at your college are going to think that’s you.
True enough. I lean back in my seat, embarrassed about the situation. Hopefully, Sierra will be too busy with her new sex toy production schedule to notice the “article,” and this journalistic offal will die a quiet death, unnoticed and without trending.
–Me: This isn’t trending, is it?
–Noah: Enough that I noticed. Why?
Dammit.
–Me: Sierra knows who my mother is.
–Noah: Ouch.
–Me: Exactly.
Sierra does not need to see what Mom does on a regular basis. Nor does she need to see pictures of my mother in a translucent dress with her nipples sticking out.