SLOANE
Some people wallowed after a disaster. Others threw fits of temper.
Me? I planned.
I had a week to swallow my shock, anger, horror, and the thousand other emotions that exploded after Perry’s post. I could dwell on Rhea’s unfair firing or work myself into a state of panic over being cut off entirely from Pen, but that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Instead, I did what I did best: I figured out how to solve a crisis.
It started with taking down Perry.
I’d already planted the seeds for my revenge; it was time to harvest them.
I tapped my pen against my knee and stared at my laptop. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and I was working from home again. I’d already filled five pages of notes on Operation PW (Operation Perry Wilson).
Perry’s power stemmed from two things: information and the platform to disseminate that information. Over the years, the little weasel had cultivated a network of spies from New York to L.A. who fed him juicy tidbits about the rich, famous, and misbehaving. Some of them were true; many were embellished.
It was impossible to fully cut off his sources because anyone could be a leak. Hotel maids, gardeners, chauffeurs, random passersby on the street…there were no limits to who could send in an anonymous tip.
Since I couldn’t eliminate his sources, I had to eliminate the reason why people wanted to send tips to him specifically. He didn’t pay them, but for anyone who wanted to expose a celebrity, get back at someone they felt had wronged them, or simply gain the satisfaction of seeing their tip used, they turned to the biggest fish in the pond. People knew Perry had the means to bring their tips to a huge audience, which brought me to the second pillar of his power: his platforms, specifically his blog and his social media.
They were concrete. Tangible. Which meant they could be taken down.
I couldn’t do it on my own. I needed an army, and luckily, I knew exactly where to find one.
A new message popped up in my encrypted server. My heart skipped a beat as I read and reread it.
Confirmed.
For the first time since I’d seen Perry’s blog post, I smiled.
I knew Xavier blamed himself for what happened, but it wasn’t his fault. I didn’t resent him for organizing one of the best days I’d had in a while, but the blog post did light my fire when it came to Perry fucking Wilson.
Next to me, The Fish swam leisurely in his aquarium. Most people preferred cuddly pets like cats and dogs, but I liked having a fish. Our roles were clear, and our worlds never crossed. He stayed in his house; I stayed in mine.
Still, it was nice to have an animate being to talk to when I was home, even when they couldn’t talk back.
“He’s toast,” I told the oblivious goldfish. “I will not rest until that man’s career is reduced to writing cat-food copy for Fast and Furriness.”
The Fish stared at me for a second before swimming away, indifferent to my scheming.
My phone rang, and I was so distracted by visions of Perry sobbing over a bowl of wet cat food that I didn’t check the caller ID before I answered.
“Hello?”
“Sloane.”
The familiar voice dripped ice down my spine. Images of Perry’s bad highlights and signature pink bow tie vanished, replaced by floppy brown hair and blue eyes.
I straightened, my hand closing tight enough around my phone to elicit a small crack.
“Don’t hang up,” Bentley said. “I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now, but we need to talk.”