Chapter 34 — The Influencer Deal
Chloe received the brand call in a café that charged too much for coffee and not enough for privacy.
She had chosen the corner table with the best light, because even panic had to be photographed correctly. Her phone lay beside a half-finished flat white and a pastry she had not touched.
Three days earlier, she would have posted the cup, her coat cuff, and the bracelet on her wrist.
Today, there was no bracelet.
That absence made the whole table look cheaper. When the brand manager’s name appeared, Chloe answered with a voice bright enough to crack.
“Amelia. Hi.”
The reply was polite.
Polite had become a dangerous sound in Chloe’s life. “We need to discuss the campaign before it proceeds.”
Chloe sat straighter. “Of course. I have the draft captions ready.”
“That is not the issue.”
There was a pause. Behind Chloe, someone laughed at another table, because the normal world continues during private collapse.
Amelia continued. “Given recent public statements, legal correspondence, and questions around venue association, the brand is pausing the partnership.”
“Pausing?”
“Yes.” “Because of Elena?”
“We are not discussing private individuals.”
That answer was worse than yes. The sound made Chloe blink, as if other people’s happiness had become personally offensive.
It meant Elena did not even need to be named. Risk had learned the route by itself.
Chloe lowered her voice. “I am the one being attacked.”
“I understand that is your position.”
My position. Two words that killed sympathy.
Brands are not friends; they are weather vanes with contracts.
Chloe looked around the café, suddenly aware that the girl at the next table might be listening.
She forced a laugh. “I think there has been a misunderstanding.” “We hope so. For now, please do not post any content featuring our products.”
Chloe’s hand tightened around the phone.
That story had been ready for the evening: skincare bottle beside white sheets, caption about fresh starts, discount code included.
A fresh start, sold for commission.
Now even her face had become a liability. “What about payment?” she asked.
Another pause.
“Pending review.”
There it was. The phrase that had followed Mark home from every room he thought he owned.
Pending review sounded professional until it happened to you.
Then it sounded like a locked door.
After the call ended, Chloe opened her messages to Mark. She typed: You need to fix this.
Deleted it.
Typed: Your wife is ruining my work.
Deleted it. Typed: I gave up everything for you.
She stared at that one.
Even she knew it was not true.
She had not given up everything. She had chased everything, and now everything was asking for receipts. Her phone buzzed again: another brand, then a rental showroom, then a photographer asking about last month’s invoice.
The café became cruelly bright.
The pastry, the coffee, and the perfect corner table all looked like props after the play had closed.
Chloe opened her social account. One comment stayed pinned beneath her latest photo: Is anything in your life actually yours?
She stared until the screen dimmed.
She did not delete it, not because it did not hurt, but because she was no longer sure of the answer.
Then Mark finally replied with three words: Keep your head. No apology, no plan, no money. The phrase sat there like a mirror she had not meant to hold up.
Just an instruction from a man whose own head had been under review for days.
Chloe looked at the message and laughed so softly the girl at the next table glanced up.
That was when she opened the camera app, arranged the products one last time, and closed it again. She needed a comeback.
By evening, she would choose the worst possible one: a live broadcast, sponsored products in frame, and the stolen bracelet back on her wrist.