Page 82 of Falling Off Script

“You’re firing me? Over a voice memo?”

“No,” I say. “Over the fact that you don’t see the difference.”

He laughs once. Bitter. “Wow. Look at you. Finally picking morals over metrics.”

“Maybe,” I say.

He opens his mouth—then closes it. His jaw clenches.

Jessie doesn’t say anything.

Tyler grabs his backpack from under the chair, mutters something low andvenomous, and walks out.

No slam. No fight.

Just gone.

I stand there, hands open, brain buzzing.

Jessie exhales through her nose. “What now?”

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t know.

I walk back to my office. Close the door. Open my laptop. Then close it again.

No content today.

No clever spin.

Just silence.

38. Emily

Hangovers aren’t supposed to last a week.

But apparently, shame marinates.

I wake up on my living room floor, clutching a half-eaten Girl Dinner charcuterie board and a hairbrush I had, at some point, used as a mic. There is a single sticky note on my laptop that read:

DO NOT PODCAST DRUNK.

Solid advice.

Not that I needed it. I hadn’t opened the podcast mic since. Or checked the analytics. Or answered Dr. Lisa’s latest texts—because if there’s one thing worse than being exposed, it’s being asked how you feel about it.

My inbox is like a haunted house—full of ghosts who suddenly remembered my name once the scandal hit trending.

Love is a scam. Trust is a liability. And the only man who’s ever trulyseenme is currently monetizing my public humiliation.

I am halfway through a Google search for “How to pivot your brand without dying” when my scheduling app pings.

New appointment booked.

Rachel G. | 1pm Today

I stare at it.

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