Page 77 of Bona Fide

? I Always Wanted to Leave — The Plot In You ?

I didn’t thinkit’d hit me so hard nor did I allow myself to think that three little videos would screw with my whole entire life. My business. My livelihood and to Mama’s TV screen to where I’ve been blowing off her calls because I’m disgusted. Not only with myself but that women like Demi actually exist in this world.

I finally answered one of Sadie’s phone calls after Demi left my house while I was curled up on my couch trying to think about the best course of action. Clients were pulling out and canceling their upcoming events. I have vans full of camera crews outside my house right now, staked out in my front yard and waiting for me to come out.

Demi leaked the other two videos probably before her ass even left my neighborhood.

Mama rang me about thirty minutes later after I tried to calm Sadie down and asked her to give me a fucking minute to think. She was frantic, her voice trembling on the other side of the phone on the verge of a panic attack. And she’s now fucked with messing up my semi-calm demeanor.

A million questions were thrown my way; did I do it? Am I sleeping around with married men? How could I do something like that at one of my events? Am I okay? That I needed to come home.

I couldn’t do that even if I wanted to.

My car is blocked in my driveway, and I’m so upset that the first motherfucker to approach me with a question is getting throat punched.

Then Wade called and texted—and what sucks is that it affected me the most.

Wade: Call me back.

Wade: Reagan, I know you’re by your damn phone.

Wade: I’m going to fix this.

Wade: You need to answer your phone so we can talk about this.

Wade: I’m so sorry, please call me back.

Wade: You’re pissing me off, Shelton. I’m not going to let you fall.

Wade: I’m coming to your house, fuck this.

Me: DO NOT COME TO MY HOUSE. THERE ARE CAMERA CREWS HERE.

Wade: I don’t give a shit.

Me: Please, don’t. You can’t be seen with me right now.

Wade: You’re my fucking party planner to them, I can do whatever the hell I want.

I call him because I know he’s probably in the elevator of his office, making his way down to the lobby. My gut wretches in response to hearing his phone ring.

I don’t want to hear him tell me that it’s going to be okay. That he can correct this.

He can’t.

He can’t be linked with me right now in any way, shape, or form.

It’ll ruin his reputation, what he’s worked for. He will be assassinated in the press, people will question—

“Hello?” His tone is stern, agitated. Like he didn’t just ask me to call him.

“You can’t come here,” I protest, clutching my phone with a death grip. “Do not even step foot in this subdivision.”

“I’m not going to sit here in this fucking office and watch everyone rip you to shreds when you did nothing wrong. That wasn’t even you in the—” I don’t hear the rest of his words.

He saw it.

Embarrassment and anger course through me even though it wasn’t me. My whole reputation, the one I built on my own after Grant, it’s completely shattered.

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