Chapter 8 - The Internet Put Me on Trial Again
“YOU CAN EDIT MY WORDS, GRANT! BUT YOU CAN'T CHANGE THE FACT THAT I REFUSED TO INVEST—AND YOU CAN'T MAKE A FORGED SIGNATURE REAL!”
By Sunday morning, Grant's video had passed two hundred thousand views.
Some commenters defended me.
Others accused me of lying.
A few insisted I was secretly involved in BrightFrame's financing.
And several strangers began searching for information about Ellison Risk Group.
The situation had become dangerous in a different way.
My employer's name was circulating beside allegations of financial misconduct.
I sat at my dining table, staring at the screen.
Every instinct told me to respond immediately.
To explain the missing parts.
To tell people about Dad's forged guarantee.
To reveal Grant's suspicious transfer.
But Helena had warned me that a public argument could complicate the investigation.
So I put down my phone.
Then picked it up again.
I hated feeling powerless.
For so long, I'd believed that if I behaved responsibly, people would eventually recognize the truth.
Now strangers were discussing my life as though I were a fictional character they could rewrite however they wanted.
I thought of the first video Tessa had posted.
My paycheck.
My old car.
My clothes.
How confidently she'd assumed those things defined me.
And how quickly strangers had agreed.
For years, I'd avoided attention because I believed privacy was a form of safety.
But privacy and silence weren't the same thing.
I could protect my private life without allowing people to falsely claim I'd committed fraud.
At ten o'clock, Helena called.
She and Ellison's legal department had reviewed my proposed statement.
With a few revisions, they agreed it could be released.
I read it aloud before posting.
“I did not authorize or participate in the financing arrangements for BrightFrame Studio. My name and professional information were used without my permission. I have reported the matter and am cooperating with the appropriate investigations. I will not discuss private financial records or speculate about the outcome.”
That was it.
No insults.
No dramatic accusations.
No photographs of Tessa crying.
No public attack on Dad.
I posted the statement to my personal account.
Then I turned off notifications.
For the next two hours, I cleaned my apartment.
I washed dishes.
Changed the bedsheets.
Watered the plants.
Ordinary activities.
For the first time in days, I wanted to remember that I still had a life outside this scandal.
Around noon, Melanie arrived with lunch.
“You did the right thing,” she said.
“I don't know.”
“You told the truth without turning it into a circus.”
I sat across from her.
“Doesn't feel like enough.”
Melanie unwrapped her sandwich.
“Lauren, you can't control what strangers believe.”
I looked at her.
“I know.”
“But you can control whether you're going to spend your whole life auditioning for their approval.”
That sentence stayed with me.
Because it applied to more than the internet.
I'd been auditioning for my family's approval for years.
Trying to be helpful enough.
Patient enough.
Responsible enough.
Quiet enough.
As though one day, everyone would finally acknowledge that I mattered.
I had never considered the possibility that I could simply decide I mattered without waiting for their permission.
That afternoon, I drove to Dad's house.
He was repairing a loose board on the back deck.
I watched him work.
His movements were slower than they used to be, but his hands remained steady.
“Need help?” I asked.
He smiled faintly.
“You can hand me that screwdriver.”
We worked together for nearly an hour.
Neither of us mentioned the internet.
When we finished, Dad sat beside me.
“I saw your statement.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you think I said too much?”
“No.”
He looked toward the yard.
“I thought you handled it with dignity.”
I swallowed.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He studied me for a moment.
“You don't have to protect my feelings by hiding the truth anymore.”
I looked at him.
“You really mean that?”
“Yes.”
“Even if Tessa gets angry?”
He nodded.
“Especially then.”
That evening, I received a message from an unknown account.
At first, I thought it was another stranger attacking me.
But the sender included a photograph.
It showed Tessa's apartment.
A laptop.
A familiar red-cased phone.
Then came a second message.
It's me. Tessa. I made a new account because Grant keeps checking my public messages.
I hesitated before answering.
What do you want?
Her reply appeared almost immediately.
I saw what he posted. He made it look like you agreed to everything.
I stared at the screen.
You were there, Tessa. You know I refused.
Several seconds passed.
Then she wrote:
Yes.
One word.
But it was the first time she'd publicly or privately acknowledged that Grant's version of our conversation was false.
I waited.
Another message appeared.
Lauren, I need to tell you something.
I felt my pulse quicken.
What?
I still have the original recording.
I sat completely still.
The original conversation.
Not the edited clip.
Not Grant's carefully selected sentences.
The complete recording of my refusal.
May you like
Then Tessa sent one final message.
And if you hear the last thirty seconds, you'll understand why Grant was so desperate to hide it.
