Chapter 5: Edited

By morning the clip had nine million views and a hashtag.

*#PrayForCressida.*

I stood in my kitchen in a T-shirt and watched strangers call me a gold digger, a liar and a violent little nobody.

Three men had spent the night in my living room, one on the sofa, one in the armchair and one on the floor with his coat for a pillow.

None of them had said a word to the others that I heard.

Now they sat around my table drinking my terrible coffee, and nobody spoke.

My boss had emailed at seven: *Please stay home until this blows over.*

Cressida's friends had posted that I forged deeds, that I paid actors, and that I should be in prison.

"My lawyers can have it down by noon," Christian said.

"My publicist has a statement," said Dorian. "It says you're a hero."

"I can have the platform delete it in an hour," Maddox said. "Quietly."

"No," I said.

All three looked up.

"Nobody touches it."

"Lena," Christian said. "Nine million people think you attacked her."

"Nine million people saw the part she cut. If you bury it, she gets to say you buried it."

My phone buzzed on the counter.

It was a letter from a law firm, slid under my door at six that morning.

It said Cressida's patron intended to file an assault complaint.

It said I was to cease and desist from claiming his property, meaning his car.

It said the lawyers would be in touch about the rest.

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