Page 97 of On the Power Play

Delia knew she shouldn't look at it. She knew it would destroy her mental health. If she struggled to see low-res pictures of her walking down the street or couldn’t handle holding Jack's hand, what would it feel like to see a rendition of herself nude? In compromising positions?

Still. Curiosity ate at her insides like battery acid. Maybe she didn't have to search up the video. She could go on her socials and feel things out through her followers? She tapped on the screen because not looking wasn't an option.

Had she been standing, her knees would've buckled at the number of notifications blaring at the top of her feed. Panic and desperation burbled up her esophagus, but she couldn't stop herself from clicking.

@oldminer: And this is all women are good for, amiright?

The caption sat under a black square with the message, "This video has been removed for explicit content." At least there was that. Delia scrolled to the next post.

@helikeshats: I didn't like her voice until I heard her beg

Bile rose in her throat. She moved to the next. And the next. Tears stung her eyes, but she couldn't stop. One after another, the captions were like paper cuts. Like candle snuffers, burying her in darkness.

When she thought she might need to run to the washroom again, something appeared on her screen and she froze. Delia blinked, the face in front of her not making any sense.

Jack.

Had someone posted a fake video of him now? Jack didn't have social media accounts, or if he did, he never posted. But there he was. His face—his dark eyes and morning stubble—taking up the entire frame. It didn't register for another fifteen seconds that his mouth was moving but there was no sound.

Delia restarted the video and turned up the volume.

"Hey, this is the first time I've ever posted something on this app, and I'm going to be honest, I'm not thrilled to be here. I'm a private person, but something happened yesterday that I felt compelled to speak up about."

Delia's heart jumped into her throat. Was this real? Jack was wearing the same grey cotton shirt he'd been wearing the night before. Had he recorded this last night? Was that why he left?

"By now, many of you have seen or heard about a video circulating online showing my girlfriend, Delia Melise. I'm not here to give it more airtime than it's already stolen, but here's the thing—it's fake. Completely and utterly bogus, but the damage it's doing is real. Not just to Delia."

Jack ran a hand through his hair and exhaled. "I've been thinking a lot about this since I watched the woman I care about shrink because of a bullshit video. She's not the first to have something like this happen to her, and I know she won't be the last. I'm going to censor myself here because I don't want this video to come down, but trust me when I say there is no word strong enough in the English language to describe how pissed off I am that men think they have a right to consume a woman's body. They don't." Jack's eyes glared directly into the camera. "You don't."

He took a moment to compose himself, drawing a deep breath. "I don't care whether the videos are real, leaked, or in this case AI curated, everyone here on this app and others like it?" He made a circle with his hands. "We're the problem. That shit wouldn't get shared if people here refused to watch it, so I'm asking you to put on your big boy pants and shut it down. Vote with your clicks and attention. I refuse to participate in a system that uses people. My dad always said, ‘Use things, love people, and worship God.’" Jack clasped and unclasped his hands, then growled, "Delia is not a damn thing."

He let that hang in the air a moment, then cleared his throat. "I ask that you join me in reporting this absolute embarrassing filth now and in the future. And if you're in Calgary, I'll see you on the ice tonight."

Delia pressed pause as the video looped. She reached up, shocked to find her cheeks were wet. That light inside her that had been reduced to smoke and ash seconds before was now blazing. Delia is not a damn thing.

She closed the app and flipped over to her contacts and found Jack's number. Texting wasn't fast enough, she needed to talk to him—to hear his voice. She pressed his number and waited for the call to connect. Her shoulders drooped when it went straight to voicemail.

"Damn it," she muttered, then realized he was probably on his way to work. Her stomach gurgled—she hadn’t eaten anything since late afternoon the day before. She pulled her hair up into a claw clip and walked into the hall, then made it halfway down the stairs before she heard the voices.

Delia stopped and looked up, then stilled with the toes of her right foot barely touching the next step.

Men. So many men in the living room. Her brain finally started processing faces, though many of them didn't look familiar. She saw Country and her heart kicked into high gear. If he was here, then?—

"Good morning." Jack's eyes were shadowed. Wary and hopeful. "I made breakfast, there's?—"

Delia bolted down the rest of the stairs and ran to him, not caring that she had purple bags under her eyes or that she hadn't thought to put on deodorant. She threw herself into his arms.

He grunted, then absorbed her into his safe harbour. But she wasn't satisfied with resting her head against his chest. With letting her heart match his rhythm. With saying a whispered “thank you.”

That flame that had roared to life inside her bedroom was raging like a damn forest fire, and she had to do something to quell the heat. It was pure, unadulterated instinct. Desire. Need that shot Delia's hand up to wrap around Jack's neck and pull his face to hers.

He was strong. He was safe. He was funny and charming as hell.

She kissed him, kneading her fingers against his skin, pressing her mouth so fully against Jack’s, she could taste him. She pulled his lower lip into her mouth and released, ran her tongue over his, breathed his air, and none of it was enough. What Jack had done—what he'd said—was the hottest thing she'd ever heard in her life.

It was only when she remembered she and Jack weren't alone in the room, not by a long shot, that she reigned herself in. Delia pulled back, panting. "Sorry."

"For what?" Jack murmured.

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