69

The next morning, Zia took her time cycling home from her sister’s, relishing the feeling of fresh air on her arms and in her lungs. Whenever she and Clay took a car, it was a monstrous black Suburban with tinted windows, entered and exited in an underground parking lot. Being on a bike felt like flying. Clay would be at the airport by now and already, she was enjoying the mental break. She picked up some groceries from the bodega, and on a whim, a bright bunch of flowers for Darlene. She locked up her bike, sidestepping a couple of tourists with bulky SLR cameras, heads buried in their phones. Look around you, she wanted to tell them. The world is beautiful—you’re missing it.

She unlocked their front door and bumped it open with her hip. She’d cook tonight and catch up with Darlene. Maybe a sheet mask, a podcast, paint her toenails red—

“Zia!” Darlene thundered down the hallway from her bedroom in a panic. “I called you a million times!”

Zia dropped the bag of groceries on the floor, her adrenaline spiking. Her mom. Layla. Darlene’s parents. Zach. “What, what’s happened?”

Darlene shoved her phone in Zia’s face. “I knew you wouldn’t have—you didn’t, right? It’s everywhere, just now, like, five minutes ago.”

Darlene’s phone was larger than her own. Which meant the picture of her and Clay—the picture she’d taken yesterday morning—looked even more luminous. Even more gorgeous. It was closer cropped and color corrected to enrich the golden-morning light slanting over their forms. Impossibly, she met her own eyes, as the Zia on the screen stared directly at her. Her breasts were wrapped tight in the gray sheet, looking large and voluptuous, her legs tucked to one side. Next to her on the bed, Clay was still fast asleep.

Still completely naked.

Horror jammed itself in her chest and split her open.

Zia had only been half aware of the fact Clay’s penis was visible in the photograph. They often slept naked, and his impressive form had become familiar to her, no longer eliciting the same giddy excitement it did months ago. But now, Clay’s penile presence was horrifically underlined. A black star was placed over her boyfriend’s nether regions, its size indicating Clay’s own.

But this couldn’t be on Darlene’s phone. Because that meant… Zia stabbed at the screen, swiping frantically until a gaudy celebrity gossip website popped up. Exclusive! Clay Russo and sexy new girlfriend Zia Ruiz get steamy at home! Sound fell away as Zia scanned the article, only registering snippets. This exclusive picture… the star’s impressive, er, physique… Ruiz, 27, met at a wedding she was working at… clearly a scorching hot new couple! At the bottom of the article were social media share buttons. Published seven minutes ago, the article already had 23.4K Facebook shares. As Zia watched, the number changed. 23.5K.

Twenty-three thousand, five hundred.

People.

Had seen that picture.

Everyone had seen that picture.

Clay was naked in that picture.

Someone grabbed her arm. Zia stifled a scream. She was in the apartment, the apartment she shared with Darlene. Darlene was yelling. “Tell me you didn’t sell this picture of Clay, Zia!”

“No, no!” Zia scrabbled in her bag for her phone. Adrenaline jacked her system, making everything sped up and frantic. “No, this is a mistake, I have to call someone, a lawyer, I need a lawyer—”

“Who sent it then?” Darlene asked. “Clay?”

Clay would see this. This violation.

Someone pounded on the front door. A rough male voice. “Hello, Zia? Harry Garbon from the New York Post, how long have you and Clay Russo been an item?”

Zia and Darlene stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Harry Garbon continued. “Any comment on the allegations you’re just using him for money?”

Darlene was at the window. “There’s photographers outside.”

A half dozen men, including the two “tourists” with SLR cameras Zia’d passed, were milling on the street below. Catching sight of Zia peering down at them, they started shooting and calling her name. Zia let out a cry and stumbled back.

Harry Garbon pounded on the door. “All I need is a picture, honey, one picture.”

Darlene beelined for the door and made sure it was locked. “No comment,” she stated. “This is private property: I’m calling the police.” She pulled Zia down the hallway, into her bedroom.

Zia felt like her body was shutting down. “They know. They all—that picture. I didn’t…”

“So who leaked it?”

Zia squeezed her eyes shut. The truth was excruciating. Not just because of what it meant for Clay.

Layla had been acting funny all morning—pissy and defensive and then when Zia was saying goodbye, oddly contrite. Zia dug for her phone, as always, on silent. There were fifty missed calls. Dozens of messages. A front-of-house manager she used to work with years ago: Zia!!! OMG you and Clay!!!! Congrats girl, he is HOT!!! Please come in anytime, Chef would love to—

Zia deleted it. As she did, another popped up, a volunteer she’d befriended in Cambodia. Holy shit!! Ha ha ha I knew you when. Looks like your bf has a massive cock .

Zia thrust her phone at Darlene. “Call my sister.”

“This is gonna be okay, Z, I promise.”

“Just call her!” Why had she taken the photo, why hadn’t she deleted it, why hadn’t she called Layla out on acting weird. Why—

Layla picked up.

Blood roared in Zia’s ears. “Tell me it wasn’t you.”

There was a painful silence. “Zia, I didn’t mean for—”

“No.” Zia bit her hand to keep from screaming. “Why? How could you?”

“It wasn’t meant to… It was an Australian website, they said you wouldn’t even know—”

“Layla!” Zia shouted. “Why the hell did you sell a picture of me and Clay? That you stole off my phone?”

“You’re so wrapped up in him! You barely have any time for us anymore—”

Zia hung up, unable to take it. Her own sister. “I have to call Clay.” She knew Layla knew her passcode—why hadn’t she changed it after she told her about Clay?

“Hey, it’s Clay. Leave a message.”

Zia hung up and threw the phone on Darlene’s bed. “Shit. Shit.”

She could call Dave, maybe he’d be with Clay, at the airport, on the plane already? She had to see Clay, had to explain—

“What Layla did is illegal.” Darlene was reading off her phone. “It’s illegal to sell a picture you didn’t take, especially one like that. She must’ve lied or forged your signature or pretended to be you. Layla could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

“Well, maybe I’ll sue my sister,” Zia snapped sarcastically. “My broke-ass sister with two little kids, maybe I’ll send her ass to jail.” She picked up her phone—Zia, hi, this is Phoebe North, deputy editor of US Weekly—and called Dave.

He answered on the first ring. His voice was atypically brisk. “Don’t make any comment.”

“Dave! Thank God. I didn’t sell it, I swear.”

“Where are you?”

“At home.”

“Stay there. Don’t answer the door.”

“I need to speak to Clay.”

A pause. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

“Shit, Dave, I need to speak to my boyfriend! Is he on the plane, where is he?”

Silence.

“Where are you?” Zia was shouting. “Where is he?”

“We’re at his place—”

“I’m coming.”

She grabbed the largest hoodie she owned and bolted for the front door. The untouched photo, the one without the black star, was probably online too. It’d likely live on the internet forever, always one Google search away: Clay Russo nude. Clay didn’t even bare his butt in movies. The word viral took on a whole new meaning. Infection. Spreading and multiplying beyond control, utterly unstoppable.

Clay would be humiliated, on a global scale. The pain of it squeezed her chest and lungs, making it hard to get a good breath. It felt like terror.

And it was 100 percent her fault.

It was a mistake to leave the apartment without a plan, and on her own. The small group of male photographers swarmed her, yelling questions and accusations: Zia, is it true about you and Clay Russo? What’s he like in bed? She made it to her bike, but between the chaos around her and tears in her eyes, she couldn’t work the lock. Someone yanked the hoodie off her head. She almost screamed.

“Zia!” Darlene called from her window, pointing at an idling car. “I called you a Lyft!”

She fought her way into the back seat. In the rearview mirror, the driver examined her. Trying to figure out if she was a celebrity. No, but I sleep with one, and now everyone knows. She pulled the hoodie low and texted Darlene to change the address to Clay’s apartment.

There, more photographers were waiting, but an experienced doorman held them back. The marble foyer felt huge and quiet as a crypt. A fairly famous young actress who owned a condo in the complex watched her scurry inside. She was someone Zia made friendly small talk with while sunbathing on the building’s roof. Now, a slight look of suspicion narrowed her eyes.

The doorman called up. Zia prayed not to be turned away. Thankfully, she wasn’t.

The elevator doors opened into Clay’s apartment to reveal a brusque-looking woman Zia recognized as Lana, Clay’s publicist, flanked by two younger women, a guy in a suit, and Dave, all huddled around the kitchen island, which was covered with open laptops. A tinny voice was speaking from a phone. “… absolutely a violation of statute and total invasion, even for Clay’s reduced expectation. We’re still figuring out if it constitutes revenge porn, but it may not even matter if—”

“Hang on, Kien.” Dave cut the voice off.

Five sets of eyes landed on Zia. Five people whose entire jobs were now managing her epic, unforgivable screwup. She felt exactly ten years old.

For a long moment, no one said anything. Then Lana pointed at her. “I need to talk to you.”

Clay walked in from the bedroom, dressed in black jeans and a black sweater. As soon as he saw Zia, he pulled up short. “What’s she doing here?”

Coldness slammed Zia in the chest. She. She’d been reduced to she.

Dave hesitated. “I let her in.”

“Can we talk?” Zia begged Clay. “Please?”

Everyone looked at Clay. He ran a hand through his hair, his mouth tight. “Yeah, sure,” he said eventually, in a way that sounded like, May as well get this over with.

---

Clay shut the doors to the windowless media room. A C-shaped leather sectional faced a TV screen the size of a dining room table. His man cave. His space. Zia shivered. Even in the hoodie, she was freezing.

Clay faced her with an expression she hadn’t seen before. Disbelief. Derision. He spread his arms wide, showman-like. “What the hell, Zia?”

Instinctively she moved toward him, needing contact. “Clay, I’m—”

He raised both hands and took a step back. Don’t. Touch me.

She stood in the middle of the room, wringing the bottom of the hoodie. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “M-my sister—”

“Your sister, posing as you, sold the photograph for fifty thousand dollars, yes, we know.” His voice was curt. This Clay wasn’t kind and gentle. He was powerful, and he was pissed. “Why did you take a photo of me naked?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think—”

“Are there others?”

“What?”

“Other pictures?” he clarified impatiently. “How many others are there, and does she have them?”

“No.” Zia shook her head, stunned at the question, which, of course, made perfect sense. “No, that was… there’s no other photos like that.”

His eyes were narrowed, arms folded over his chest. He wasn’t sure whether he believed her. “So, what: you wanted to sell it and your sister got there first?”

“What? No!” She took another step forward.

Clay’s hands shot up again. “Don’t come near me.”

Anger lashed through her. “Jesus, Clay. I’m your girlfriend, and I took a picture of us. A picture for me. My sister stole it. I didn’t show it to her. You were leaving for six weeks—I wanted something to remember us, to keep us safe.”

“Safe? You wanted to keep us safe?” Clay was shouting. “My cock is on the internet. Forever. Do you have any idea how degrading that is? Anyone can see my penis anytime they want. That’s a sex crime.”

Zia started crying hard, overwhelmed with revulsion and humiliation. She was a survivor of an abusive relationship. But Clay was right: this was a sex crime. “I’m sorry. You don’t know how h-hard it’s been.” She was shaking. “You keep me so far away.”

“We’re together all the time!”

“But I can’t talk about you to anyone; I can’t go anywhere with you. We never talk about the future. I make myself constantly available for you. I plan my life around you, your needs, your schedule, your rules. You have complete control over me.” And only as she said the words out loud did she realize how true they were, how she’d repeated the same pattern: let a powerful man call the shots, telling herself it was okay because they were in love.

In love.

They hadn’t said it to each other yet. But she did love him, and she thought he loved her, and what an awful time to fully realize it all. “I needed to take something back. So, I took a picture. For me, just for me.”

“A picture that now the whole world has seen.” Clay sat on the back of the sectional, his eyes burning with suspicion. “It just seems kind of… calculated.”

Zia tried to swallow. There was something nightmarishly recognizable about all this: being distrusted, being accused. “Calculated?”

“Yeah. You always say family comes first. I bet fifty grand really helped your sister out.”

The ugliness of it made her gasp. Her shame boiled into outrage. “You don’t believe me? I’m telling you the truth, Clay. I’ve always told you the truth.”

He looked back at her with cool eyes and the fact he was still trying to figure it out made her want to break something. When he spoke, his voice was low and quiet. “Zia, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“I need to be around people I can trust. I don’t trust you anymore.”

It was so painfully absurd, she almost laughed in disbelief. “You’re breaking up with me?”

“I’m sorry. But this is goodbye.”

The smile he gave her was sad and full of remorse. And, final. Without another word, Clay turned and walked out of the room.