I do my business, then wash my face and attempt to tame my mane, which is an unmitigated disaster following last night’s erotic escapades. Thank goodness for small favors because there’s a complimentary toiletry kit set out on the sink that miraculously includes a toothbrush. All hail swanky hotels. I could get used to this.
I give up trying to make my hair look presentable and pull out my phone, wincing with guilt when I realize I never checked in with Nat after last night’s spectacle. She probably thinks I’ve been out burying Jack’s body—and knowing her, she’s got several airtight alibis locked and loaded.
The phone starts vibrating and dinging with messages as soon as I boot it up, and whoa—sixty-three text messages, twenty-three voice mails. “What the . . .”
I scroll through my call log first—there are several voice mails from Nat, three from my sister, one from my parents, and a ton from unknown numbers. Did Nat call everyone I know looking for me? Great, now I’m queasy at the thought of having to explain my disappearing act. Sorry everyone, I was too busy having multiple orgasms to answer your calls? No.
I switch over to my text messages. As expected, a slew of them are from Nat: Where are you? Are you okay? and CALL ME and Seriously, call me right now, 911. But I zero in on one from a college friend I haven’t heard from in months—since her wedding last year, in fact—and click on it.
Sarah: OMG Cass, is this true? I couldn’t believe it when Doug showed it to me!
Beneath her text there’s a link to an article from Page Six, and I click on it with a mounting sense of dread. I sink down onto the closed toilet lid while the page loads—then gasp when the headline pops up.
BRAWLER FOUNDER HAS MELTDOWN AT STAR-STUDDED SIREN PARTY
Top names in media were shocked Friday night when Brawler founder Jack Bradford got into a heated public argument with another guest during Siren’s glittering annual Women of the Year gala.
The famously private cofounder of the controversial men’s lifestyle website and digital media company stunned onlookers when he and his rumored girlfriend, identified as Siren writer Cassidy Sutton, got into a fiery spat right in the midst of the flashy festivities.
Sources at the party told Page Six that Bradford appeared belligerent and possibly intoxicated, loudly berating Sutton while her stunned coworkers, an assortment of celebrity honorees, and a who’s-who of media elite looked on. The explosive exchange culminated in Sutton storming out of the party, with Bradford close behind.
While the motive for the brawl remains unclear, witnesses claim that Bradford wasn’t trying to hide his animosity.
“It almost seemed like he was trying to cause a scene,” one partygoer observed.
When reached for comment, Siren CEO and founder Cynthia Barnes-Cooke said in a statement, “It’s unfortunate that this incident has distracted from the evening’s fundamental purpose: to honor our many esteemed and accomplished women of influence.”
Other employees were less diplomatic. “It’s outrageous that anyone from Brawler would dare show their face at our event,” sniped one Siren staffer who declined to be identified. “The toxic patriarchal culture they promote has no place in modern media.” Another Siren source downplayed the spat, chalking it up to a “lovers’ quarrel.”
It’s the latest chapter in the long-running feud between the dueling media companies and founders, at professional odds since the launches of their respective sites a decade ago. While their journalistic sparring is par for the course, an in-person clash appears to be a significant escalation.
News of the skirmish comes at an awkward time for Bradford, as industry rumors swirl about his future at Brawler amid reports he’s selling his stake in the digital media juggernaut. Insiders voiced surprise at the brouhaha, noting that Brawler cofounder and professional provocateur Tom Bartlett is typically the one generating negative headlines, with Bradford widely regarded as the company’s stabilizing influence. No word on how potential investors will feel about two erratic captains steering the ship.
Holy shit.
Well, this is bad. Really bad.
I set the phone down on the vanity with shaking hands, pulse pounding in my throat. There are so many thoughts ping-ponging around my brain that I can hardly make sense of any of them. How did I get myself into this mess? Everyone I know is going to read this. Jack’s trying to sell his stake in Brawler? My career is ruined. Why didn’t I see this coming? Jack is going to be devastated.
The last one leaves me frozen, and I think I’m going to be sick. I have to go out there and show this to him. I have to walk out of this bathroom and ruin his life, taking a chainsaw to all our beautiful memories of last night in the process. Even worse is the knowledge that I’m the catalyst for all of this. If I hadn’t treated him like a pawn in my stupid game, none of this would ever have gotten this far.
I steel myself, take a deep breath, and open the door—then see the world has already beaten me to it.
Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, hunched over his phone. From his body language, I can tell immediately that he knows. “Jack?”
He doesn’t move.
I cross the room and sit down on the bed next to him. “Jack.” I put my hand on his back and he stiffens.
He turns his head to look at me, but his gaze is vacant. “What is this?”
“I don’t know. I just saw it myself.”
“Did you plan this?”
I recoil. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” His voice is cold and hard. Accusing. “Did you have a hand in this?”
I gape at him in disbelief. “Me? You’re the one who walked into a roomful of reporters and acted like a raving lunatic! Which you haven’t exactly apologized for, by the way. What did you think was gonna happen?”
“So it’s just a coincidence that for months you planned to write a story exactly like this, and today it just magically appeared? Wow, that sure is some interesting timing.”
I stare at him as an old, familiar voice wakes from a long hibernation, shakes off the dust bunnies, and whispers in my ear like the ghost of boyfriends past: Strike one.
I push the thought away. He’s in shock; give him the benefit of the doubt. “Look, I know you’re upset. I’m upset too. But this affects both of us, and lashing out at me isn’t going to fix it.”
He snorts in derision. “Both of us. Right. This?” He holds up his phone. “Is a hit piece.”
He stands abruptly and hurls his phone across the bed, and I flinch when it bounces off the headboard with a loud crack. He goes to the desk and grabs his pants, yanking them on aggressively while I stare down at my lap, nausea roiling my stomach.
Silence hangs over the room like a storm cloud, heavy and ominous, until one of the article’s bombshells comes into sharper focus. “Wait a minute, what does this mean, you’re trying to sell your stake in Brawler? Is that true?”
He doesn’t respond, keeping his back to me as he jerks on his shirt.
“You are,” I say in astonishment, awareness dawning. “Why wouldn’t you tell me that?”
“Because the deal isn’t done! If there even is a deal anymore,” he says curtly, still turned away from me. “And it was supposed to be confidential. I couldn’t discuss it with anyone, least of all you.”