Chapter 2 — Viral Aftermath

Amelia

The buzz of the office seemed louder than usual, a constant hum of keyboards, muted conversations, and the occasional ringtone. Or maybe it wasn’t louder. Maybe my nerves had just cranked the volume up to eleven. Every time I passed a group of coworkers, their voices dropped just enough to make my stomach twist. Were they talking about me? Of course, they were talking about me.

“Did you see the video?”

“Poor Amelia… what a disaster.”

I adjusted the collar of my silk blouse, forcing my fingers to stay steady, and checked the alignment of my gold monogrammed fountain pen clipped neatly to my planner. It was perfect, just like everything else on the outside. I lifted my chin and strode toward my office, my heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. Each step was deliberate, a counterpoint to the storm brewing beneath my carefully composed exterior.

The open office layout was a nightmare. There was no escape from the swiveling chairs and darting glances, no way to avoid the faint whispers floating through the air like poison darts. I caught fragments of conversations—“wedding,” “video,” “cringe”—each one tightening the knot in my stomach.

Near the coffee station, two junior associates froze mid-conversation when I walked by. One of them, a woman with sleek black hair and a pastel blazer, quickly turned to refill her mug, but the other—a guy barely out of college—didn’t bother hiding his wide-eyed stare.

“She’s right there,” the woman hissed, elbowing him.

“Do you think she knows?” he whispered back, his voice carrying just enough to make my cheeks burn.

My grip on my planner tightened, and I forced myself to keep walking. By the time I reached my glass-walled office, my palms were clammy. I shut the door a little too forcefully, the faint thud drawing a couple of curious glances from the nearest desk pod. A tight, practiced smile was all I could manage before turning away.

I wasn’t fine.

Dropping the planner onto my desk, I sank into my ergonomic chair and stared blankly at the black screen of my tablet. For a moment, it reflected back the image of a woman who looked polished and put together. But I knew better.

The moment replayed itself in my mind, sharp and unrelenting. Ethan’s voicemail. The stunned silence of the wedding guests. The bouquet trembling in my hands, the smooth silk ribbon biting into my fingers. My mascara streaking down my cheeks as I stood at the altar, clutching that bouquet like a lifeline.

And then, the pièce de résistance: the video.

Someone from Ethan’s side of the family, I was sure of it, had recorded my walk of shame. Shaky, vertical footage of me storming out of the ceremony, my voice cracking as I snapped at a well-meaning guest who’d tried to stop me. The clip had gone viral within hours, immortalizing my humiliation in memes, reaction GIFs, and TikTok remixes set to “Dancing On My Own.”

I’d watched it once. Just once.

The raw, unfiltered mortification had been too much to bear. Even now, the memory of it made my chest tighten and my jaw clench.

A knock on the door startled me out of my spiraling thoughts. Claire, my assistant, poked her head in, her expression a carefully crafted mix of pity and professionalism.

“Amelia, there’s a staff meeting in ten minutes,” she said. “Mr. Harrington asked me to remind you.”

Great. Just the thing I needed—a performance review disguised as a team check-in.

“Thanks, Claire,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “Anything else?”

She hesitated, her hand fluttering to the doorframe. Her gaze flickered to the floor before meeting mine. “Just… ignore them. People are awful, but they’ll move on to the next scandal soon enough.”

I raised an eyebrow, her words scraping against my pride. “That’s comforting. Truly.”

Claire winced, offering a weak smile. “For what it’s worth, I think you handled it better than most people would’ve. If I can do anything to help, just let me know.”

As she closed the door, I let out a slow breath. Claire meant well, but her words only emphasized the spectacle I couldn’t escape.

The staff meeting was exactly as dreadful as I’d expected. Harrington’s reminder to “maintain professionalism in all circumstances” was clearly directed at me, though he never said my name. The glances from my coworkers ranged from sympathetic to smug, and I wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the leather chair beneath me.

When it finally ended, I escaped back to my office and locked the door behind me. My tablet buzzed with incoming emails, but I ignored them.

Instead, I grabbed my phone and texted the two people I knew wouldn’t treat me like a broken vase: Sophia and Max.

Me: Emergency wine night. My place. ASAP.

Sophia’s reply came within seconds.

Sophia: Be there in an hour. Bringing red wine and emotional support snacks. 💕

Max, predictably, took longer.

Max: Can’t. Busy. Coding.

Me: Tacos.

Max: Fine. 8 PM.

By the time they arrived, I’d swapped my silk blouse and pencil skirt for sweatpants and a hoodie. The polished, composed version of Amelia Grant had been left at the office. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of my apartment, I let the cracks in my armor show—just a little.

Sophia burst in first, carrying two bottles of wine and a bag of kettle chips. She enveloped me in a hug before I could protest, her auburn curls brushing against my cheek.

“You poor thing,” she said, her voice warm and soothing. “If I could, I’d personally track down whoever posted that video and make them delete their entire existence.”

“Tempting,” I muttered, pulling back. “But last I checked, the internet doesn’t work that way.”

Max arrived a few minutes later, dropping a greasy bag of tacos onto my coffee table before sprawling across the couch like he owned it.

“So,” he said, unwrapping a taco, “what’s the plan? And please tell me it doesn’t involve more public crying. The internet’s already overloaded with memes.”

I glared at him. “Thank you for your sensitivity, Max. Truly. It’s inspiring.”

Sophia rolled her eyes and handed me a glass of wine. “Ignore him. He’s just bitter because his last Instagram post got two likes.”

“That’s because I don’t post on Instagram,” Max shot back.

“Exactly my point.”

I sipped my wine, letting their banter fill the room. It was comforting, in a way—something familiar and normal in the midst of my chaos.

But the reprieve didn’t last long. The moment Sophia turned her full attention to me, her green eyes blazing with determination, I knew I was in trouble.

“You need to take control of the narrative,” she said, leaning forward. “Don’t let Ethan—or that video—define you. You’re Amelia freaking Grant. You’re smart, gorgeous, successful—”

“Humiliated,” I interrupted.

“Temporarily humiliated,” she corrected. “You can bounce back. You just need a plan.”

Max snorted. “What’s she supposed to do? Stage a fake wedding to outshine the first disaster? Hire a hot actor to play her new boyfriend?”

Sophia’s eyes lit up. “That’s… actually not a terrible idea.”

I stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?” she said, her tone growing more animated. “Think about it. You’re already the center of attention. Use it to your advantage. Show the world you’re thriving. Show Ethan what he’s missing.”

“And by ‘show Ethan,’ you mean rub it in his face,” Max said, smirking.

“Exactly!” Sophia exclaimed.

I drained my wine glass and set it down with a decisive clink. “This is ridiculous. I’m not hiring someone to fake-date me. What am I, a rom-com cliché?”

Sophia grinned. “If the shoe fits…”

Max’s gaze softened, just enough to catch me off guard. “Look, it’s not the worst idea. But if you’re going to do it, you need to be smart about it. No half-baked schemes. No emotional outbursts. Just pure, calculated strategy.”

“Like a marketing campaign,” I muttered.

Sophia clapped her hands together. “Exactly! And who knows? Maybe by the end of it, you’ll feel better. Or at least look better online.”

I sighed, leaning back against the couch. The wine was working its magic, dulling the sharp edges of my humiliation. Maybe they were right. Maybe taking control of the narrative was the only way to survive this.

“Fine,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

Sophia squealed, and Max shook his head, but for the first time in days, I felt a flicker of something that wasn’t despair.

Hope. Or maybe just spite.

Either way, it was enough for now.