Page 3 of Twisted Control

I don’t think about it. I knock back the first. The burn cuts straight through the tight feeling in my chest.

The second goes down easier.

By the third, the edge is already softening, warmth spreads through me, loosening something I didn’t realize I’d been holding all day.

Okay. I can do this.

I wait a beat, letting it settle, then reach into my bag and pull out my phone.

I’ve barely looked at it since yesterday. After the show aired, everything turned fast—comments piling up, nastier by the second. Insults. Threats. That awful fake sympathy. I couldn’t deal with it.

But I can’t ignore it forever.

By now, people have to see what actually happened. They have to know I am the victim in this.

I open the app and my stomach drops.

I had 9.4 million followers yesterday. Now it’s 8.9.

Half a million people—gone. Just like that.

I sit there, frozen on the sticky barstool, as notifications start flooding the screen.

Die, bitch.

Not the It Girl anymore. Unfollow.

Every brand you’ve ever tagged has been notified. You’re done. Just accept it.

So embarrassed for you…

I got my hair done just like you. Rebooking ASAP.

Grace Whitmore is unhinged. I’m here for it.

Who would have thought she was hiding all that crazy.

A new tagged video pops up of me outside Aura with the bouncer blocking my path.

I click out of it immediately.

More notifications take its place. And more. Each one worse than the last.

People I’ve known for years are unfollowing me. Brands I’ve worked with are posting careful statements, distancing themselves.

No. That can’t be right.

I refresh the page and there’s another drop in followers.

I keep tapping, like I can stop it if I’m fast enough, like I can catch it before it gets worse. But it doesn’t stop. It just keeps slipping.

My chest tightens until it’s hard to breathe. The air in this place feels thick, like I can’t get enough of it in.

For thirty years, I did everything right. I’ve been the perfect daughter. The perfect friend. The perfect influencer. Straight A’s, charity galas, flawless posts. I never messed up. Not once.

And now because of one small mistake, I’m cancelled.

The vodka still burns in my throat. Three shots on an empty stomach was a terrible idea. The room tilts slightly, then settles.