Chapter 3
1025 Words
BELLA
My phone will not stop vibrating.
I'm contemplating turning off my phone, or even worse, flinging it at the nearest wall, due to the number of pings I've received this morning.
At first, it’s only annoying enough to ignore. A few notifications. A couple of messages. Nothing unusual.
Then the buzzing became constant.
Relentless.
Like my entire phone has developed anxiety.
I groan into my pillow and blindly reach for it from my nightstand.
Since the moment of my semi-altercation with Chase last night, I'd been so exhausted that I'd slept as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Now I squint my eyes as the brightness nearly blinds me.
Ninety-nine plus notifications.
My stomach drops instantly.
“What the hell…”
I sit up too quickly, pushing tangled red hair away from my face while opening i********:.
The screen loads for half a second before chaos explodes in front of me.
My follower count has tripled overnight.
No.
Quadrupled.
I leave the room and put on a face mask before getting my matcha, after which I prepare myself and continue scrolling.
The sight I see makes me almost put the phone down. Almost.
Comments flood every recent post faster than I can read them.
‘YOU ATE HIM UP.’
‘Finally, someone holding athletes accountable.’
‘Attention seeker.’
‘Future Pulitzer winner omg.’
‘You people always ruin men’s lives.’
‘She’s so brave.’
‘She just wants Chase Carter.’
The last comment makes me physically recoil. Absolutely not.
I toss the phone onto my blanket like it offended me personally before immediately grabbing it again. Because unfortunately, curiosity is stronger than dignity.
Another comment read, ‘Go girl, let's bring down the patriarchy!’
While the next read, ‘What a slut! Just trying to get attention in the most horrendous of ways without verifying facts!’
I place my matcha on the bedside table, temporarily forgetting it as I focus my attention on the phone, scrolling through my posts and trying to see where the entire commotion was stemming from.
Just then, a call comes through. It's Nora.
“Please tell me you’re calling with good news.”
“Bella.” Nora sounds halfway between horrified and excited. “You’re trending.”
I close my eyes slowly.
“Fantastic.”
“No, like actually trending.”
My stomach sinks further.
I open the app again while Nora keeps talking.
What's going on?” I say as I hurriedly remove my mask from my face, not letting it settle anymore.
The next thing she says makes me still, but not in a good way.
“Remember the interaction -s***h- altercation with Chase? Someone recorded it and you both are going soo viral now.”
“You've gained supporters, as well as enemies. Hold on, lemme send you the link to the video.”
She sends the link, and I tap on it, knowing but not knowing what I'd see.
Someone uploaded the entire press conference confrontation in absurdly clear quality.
Millions of views already.
The comments are even worse now.
Some people are treating me like a feminist icon.
Others seem ready to publicly execute me.
These two sets of people didn't really bother me, as I'd become used to criticisms and praise from the public ever since I'd decided to pursue journalism.
And then there are the weird ones. The ones making edits. Shipping videos. Romantic music.
The people who left comments such as,
“OMG! Am I the only one or is there so much tension between them?”
To which there were replies such as,
“The best enemies to lovers fr!!”
I nearly choke on air.
“Nora,” I say flatly, “people on the internet need psychological evaluations.”
She snorts loudly.
“I’m serious. Some of these edits are kind of insane.”
I continue scrolling despite myself.
Every clip focuses on the same moment.
The eye contact. The silence. The challenge in his voice when he asked if I cared about the truth.
I hate how cinematic it looked.
“I’m going to shower,” I mumble.
“Bella…”
“I’m serious. I need hot water and temporary memory loss.”
Nora laughs softly before hanging up.
I toss my phone onto the bed and head toward the bathroom.
What I don’t see is the unknown number calling seconds later.
CHASE
My PR manager sounds like he’s aged ten years overnight.
“Get here now.”
Then he hangs up.
No explanation. No greeting. Nothing.
That alone tells me how bad things are.
I drive across campus with one hand tight around the steering wheel while notifications continue flooding my phone nonstop.
Most are useless.
Sponsors. Team staff. Random media requests.
But one thing keeps distracting me.
Bella Moreno.
After the press conference, I made the mistake of searching her name online.
Now I know three things about her.
One: She wants to become an investigative journalist.
Two: She’s built an entire reputation exposing institutional misconduct.
And three: For some reason, she’s obsessed with matcha.
There are at least fifteen separate pictures of her holding green drinks while glaring at the camera like someone forced her to socialize.
It’s strangely entertaining.
Annoyingly entertaining.
My attention momentarily shifts, as another frantic message from my manager comes in again.
By the time I reach the athletics building, my mood has worsened considerably.
Something feels wrong.
Inside the conference room, my entire PR team is already seated.
My manager, Mr. Chen, stands near the projector screen looking exhausted.
His tie is crooked. There’s stubble along his jaw.
I’ve never seen him unprepared before, as he always looks put-together no matter the circumstances.
Now I'm sure that the issue is big.
The second I walk in, the room goes silent.
Not a good sign.
I pull out a chair slowly.
“Morning.”
Nobody answers properly. Mr. Chen rubs a hand down his face before finally speaking.
“Chase,” he says carefully, “your sponsors are threatening to pull out.”
Everything inside me stills.
For a moment, I genuinely think I misheard him.
“What?”
- Writer
