Break Me? Try Again!

Someone posted a photo of me on The Buzz.

It was from last week's Rising Star ceremony—me standing at the podium in the company auditorium, the internal magazine's cover projected on the screen behind me. The company's official account had shared it with a short caption: Congratulations to Evie Russo, this year's Rising Star. A well-deserved recognition for outstanding work in features.

In just a few minutes, the post had already racked up dozens of comments.

[She's only been here two years and she's already on the cover? Incredible.]

[Evie is the real deal. Her piece on the Greenfield merger was the best thing we published all year.]

[Does anyone know if she's single? Asking for a friend. Okay fine, asking for me.]

I scrolled through with a blank expression until a long comment from an account called JM_ITdept jumped out at me.

[What's wrong with you people? Fawning over Evie Russo? Don't you know how she really got that cover? She's been Marcus Hale's pet project since day one. And I do mean "pet." Ask anyone who's worked late on the 14th floor—everyone knows what's going on.]

Someone quickly replied: [Who is this clown? Why is he trashing her under a company post?]

But JM_ITdept wasn't about to stop. It seemed something in that reply had set him off, and he fired back with another long comment.

[Trashing her? Are you kidding me? I've seen it with my own eyes. She and Marcus were all over each other on the rooftop—broad daylight, didn't even bother being discreet. She only fools the new hires with her "hardworking girl" act. Everyone in editorial knows her Rising Star title and her promotion were earned on her back.]

In my past life, this was the moment my hands started shaking. My coffee spilled across the keyboard, and I sat there frozen, unable to breathe, until Serena rushed over and wrapped an arm around me.

This time, my hands didn't shake. I set down my coffee cup, slowly, deliberately, and kept reading.

"Evie, are you okay? You look like someone just walked over your grave." Dana Park leaned over from the next desk, her eyes landing on my screen. She read for three seconds, and her expression shifted from curiosity to disbelief.

"Hold on—JM_ITdept? That's Jake Morrow's handle. I've seen it in the dev channel." Dana's voice dropped, but not enough. "Serena, isn't Jake your boyfriend? Why is he going after Evie like this on The Buzz?"

Serena Cole looked up from her desk across the aisle. Confusion flickered across her face as she stood and walked over, heels clicking on the floor. She leaned over Dana's shoulder, read the comments, and her face flushed a deep, blotchy red.

By now, half the floor had the thread open. I could see it on their screens—the same post, the same comments, reflected in monitor after monitor like a hall of mirrors. A few people looked up at me, then quickly looked away.

"This is insane," one of the junior editors muttered, loud enough for me to hear. "That has to be defamation. Evie, you should go straight to HR."

"No! Don't—don't go to HR." Serena's voice came out too fast, too sharp. She caught herself and softened it, pressing a hand to her chest. "Evie, I'm so sorry. There has to be some kind of misunderstanding. Let me go talk to Jake right now. I'll make him delete everything and apologize to you. I promise."

Her expression was earnest, almost pleading. Her hand found my arm, warm and reassuring, the way it always did when she wanted someone to trust her.

If I hadn't lived through all of this once before, I might have believed her and let her handle it.

But in my past life, Jake never deleted those comments. He never apologized either. Instead, after a certain video went viral, he leaned back in his chair with that smug grin and said one thing: "See? What did I tell you? Evie Russo slept her way to the cover."

Without a word, I stood up. I picked up my phone, put on my blazer, and walked toward the IT department.

Behind me, I heard Serena call out, "Evie, wait—let me talk to him first—" But I was already past the glass doors.

Jake Morrow was at his workstation, leaning back with his feet up, scrolling through his own comment thread like a man admiring his handiwork. When he saw me standing in front of him, he froze for about three seconds. Then he rearranged his face into something that was supposed to look righteous.

"Is what you wrote true?" I asked.

He blinked. "What?"

I held up my phone, the comment glaring back at him from the screen. "You said I slept my way to Rising Star. You said everyone knows. That I was all over Marcus on the rooftop. Is that true? When exactly did this happen? Where? How many people saw it? Because I don't remember any of it—so tell me, Jake, is it true or not?"

His expression shifted instantly. His face turned pale, then blotchy red, and for several seconds he couldn't form a coherent response.

It wasn't until Serena finally caught up, slightly out of breath, that she stepped in. She grabbed Jake's arm and squeezed, hard, whispering through her teeth: "Apologize. Now."

Like snapping out of a trance, Jake stammered, "S-sorry, Evie. I didn't mean—look, I was just running my mouth. I shouldn't have posted any of that."