Page 72 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

Delaney's gone live a few more times, talking about me while making herself the victim, and though I haven't watched the videos, the girls have kept me informed each week at brunch, which I'm happily re-attending. We're settling into a new normal with just the four of us and though I like to keep the topic on what they're up to, inevitably, every week, someone will make a comment about Delaney's posts and we end up discussing it.

I feel no different now, watching her face fill my screen. Annoyed. Disappointed. Hurt. None of that's faded. I turn up the volume and listen in. She's already a few minutes into her rant, since Portia took a minute to tell me to watch, so I catch her mid sentence.

"And it's not like she ever really understood, you know? She pretends like her life is so hard, talks about growing up poor. But she lives in a penthouse with a rooftop pool. I mean, do you guys even get how pretentious that is? Talk about a double-standard. Her whole platform is supposed to be healthy living on a budget. So, anyway, I'm sorry to start off complaining. You all know I've shifted my platform to talk more about mental health and the seriousness of the subject."

Clearing her throat, she blinks back tears and averts her gaze from the camera, intensifying the intrigue. My fists clench, and a sheen of sweat breaks out over my skin while panic rises up my chest. The pressure squeezes my brain, leaving me in a cold, dissociating fog, knowing whatever she's already said is terrible, but that was just the build-up. Whatever lies she's about to tell will be a lot worse.

"I need to call out Lucy, ZenInTheCity, because over the course of our friendship, she was incredibly emotionally abusive and manipulative. She's taken advantage of my kindness so many times, and she uses people. She's stolen advertisers from me, modeling gigs, hell, even content ideas! I can't tell you how many times over the years we'd be sitting at brunch and I'd tell everyone what my focus was that week and low and behold, within a couple of days, Lucy would post my idea."

I feel like I'm going to vomit. Delaney is the one who did that! And she did it to all of us. We got so used to it, we stopped talking about our upcoming content at brunch.Delaney is the one who steals ideas!

It doesn't matter though. Comments are pouring in, supporting Delaney's hardship. She even clears away a fake tear, sniffing, thanking everyone for their kind words.

She continues, "So, that's it. Now you know. It's why I shared those pictures of me and her boyfriend. Someone sent them to me as a joke, and I was just so pissed at her. It was wrong of me to share them, Mateo's a really great guy. She doesn't deserve him. But I just needed to get a little bit of my control back. You have no idea who she really is." Her breath hitches on the last sentence.

My hands shake as I grip the basket and my phone. Forcing myself to listen to the next few minutes while she grants platitudes to her listeners, they praise her for her bravery for speaking out against my toxic behavior.

My phone beeps with incoming messages from Portia.

I close the app. I almost turn my phone off, but force myself to open the text messages, and I notice one from a number I put on silent.

How is it possible I didn't delete this text chain?

I never responded to the first ones, too shattered by the pictures the anonymous person sent. Delaney never claimed credit for texting me those pictures that awful night, she said it was some other girl, but I didn't believe her for a second. And now, with the timing of her video, I'm certain it's her.

When I open the text thread, I notice that these recently sent pictures differ from the ones before. There's no sex, no AI, or well-edited, scandalous shots. As I scroll down, I see candids of Silas, Noah, Mateo, and me. Some variation of the four of us, together or on our own, coming in and out of the apartment. As if these pictures offer multiple forms of evidence to support some type of claim.

I know what they're implying by sending these, or maybe I'm just hypersensitive because I know I'm sleeping with three men and feel nervous that someone else might know too.

With a shaky grip, I fumble with my phone until it's turned off. With my heart racing and mind on overdrive, I can't stop thinking about the consequences of what Delaney said, what it could mean for my future. Thinking about all the people who heard those awful things she just said about me, the advertisers, followers, all the progress I've made over the last few weeks—all of it feels like it's going up in smoke.

On autopilot, I pay for my things and leave the market, making the short walk back to my apartment.

I have no idea if I even said anything polite to the cashier. I can't remember paying, though no one chased after me, so I must have. The receptionist in the lobby of our building hands me a package, and I manage a smile that feels more like agrimace, thanking him before continuing on to the elevator, every step closer to my apartment offering a comforting sense of security.

By the time I get home, I feel like I can breathe again.

The now familiar sounds of Noah and Silas working in the living room, arguing over some character rendering, help settle my nerves. I'm grateful they're in the middle of working so that they don't get up to greet me, giving me time to get my shit together.

Slipping my phone in the cutlery drawer, burying it at the back, as if that will help distance me from the chaos, I set the package down at the end of the counter, then put away the groceries.

I plaster on a smile and start making Silas the avocado fries, the monotonous action helping me work through the logistics of the worst-case scenarios. By the time I'm finishing up, Noah meanders into the kitchen, pouring himself a beer. He watches me for a minute, and I know I'm not fooling him at all. But I keep going. He says nothing and when Silas calls out to him, asking where his beer is, Noah ignores him.

"I'm fine," I assure him, smiling wide, though my eyes are watering. I sniff, wiping my face on my sleeve. But then the tears start pouring. I keep smiling, plating the fries, only stopping when Noah's hand reaches out, stilling mine. I pause when he threads his fingers through mine, pulling me toward him.

"Lucy," he says softly, gently guiding me away from the counter so I can face him.

Silas is still shouting from the living room. It makes me laugh. I picture him playing his games, yelling for more chips and beer like a frat boy, totally unaware of his environment. It's cute. And helps break the tension, allowing me to find the courage to say, "I'm fine. I swear. It's just… There's another video. From Delaney. It… it wasn't nice. But I'm fine."

He nods, still holding my hands and giving me space to feel. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I let out a heavy breath, blowing loose strands of my hair, which have fallen from my ponytail up and around my face. "Not yet. I can't—"

The words stick in my throat. He waits a beat before pulling me back to the counter, and together we plate the fries.

It's still early. Mateo won't be home from work for a few hours, but Silas is a human garbage disposal and can eat whenever food is put in front of him, regardless of the time.

Silas notices the dried tears and red cheeks the moment he steps into the kitchen, after realizing neither of us were responding to his beer pleas. About to launch into a full scale interrogation, he's silenced with one sharp head shake from Noah, who's still holding my hand.

---