Page 46 of The Unfluencer

But then I notice a string of recent messages in the group chat that Tatiana created this morning, minus Priscilla.

Tatiana

Whit, I’m looking at these photos, and DIVA!!! You got some ’splaining to do.

Ebony

Y’all looked real cozy up in that tiny bathroom together.

Tatiana

Honeyyyy, the camera never lies. Did you see his hand on her waist? Rock the boat all they want to, I’m never leaving this ship.

Chanel

Ooh, we are cordially invited to the media storm of Warner and Whitney.

Ebony

Cute.

Chanel

Oop, look at this one.

“Ugh, can I pass?”

Priscilla deflates into a miserable groan, making me look up from the Scandal Exposes Secret Sparks clipping.

“Is your heart broken?” I ask, officially, because this is what happens when two divas spiral at the same time. We divide the mope. We talk, ask questions, pass the baton. Basically, the three-legged Trauma Olympics, minus the potato sacks, and she gets to go first.

Heartbreak always outranks headlines.

“Nope, if Trent’s made for you, it should be easy to rattle off a few reasons why.” I close the chat and tuck myself tighter into my covers, determined to be present for the friend who isn’t romanticizing my PR catastrophe with a potential client. Even if he’s single and fine as hell. “The way I see it, your heart deserves, minimum, three reasons.”

She huffs softly. “Aren’t you supposed to be consoling me?”

“That’s an Ebony or Tatiana thing,” I say, setting the proper expectations. “I made no such promise.”

She’s still giggling. “It’s implied.”

“Ma’am, it’s been, what, six years with him?”

“Ugh. Shouldn’t that be even more reason?” Priscilla flexes her fingers, still trying to shake some sense into this air-fried version of Trent. “Whit, he sees me.”

I tip my head to either side. “Of course, feeling seen, chosen, it’s great. But validation isn’t connection, boo. Sorry. Trust me, being emotionally invested in someone not invested in you comes at too high a price.”

See exhibits A through Z of my family tree.

“Listen, if I could trade shoes with you, turn my heart into titanium”—again, Priscilla huffs softly—“I absolutely would. With the quickness.” She props herself up on one elbow, getting good and comfortable to pass the baton. “Speaking of…”

I flick my gaze to the side. Oh, we are not about to turn this into more of a ro-mess than it already is.

“I have the baton.” I lift up my makeshift baton—my TV remote—into the air, waiting for her to concede my power over the vent. When she finally relents, I smile, then immediately dive into my biggest gripe. “I’m still pissed at the level of audacity it took for that man to traipse into my gallery at the end of the night.”

“At least he wasn’t a no-show.” Priscilla sweetly, unnecessarily gives Warner grace.

“Might as well have been,” I scoff. “He didn’t ask me one question about the gallery, how I’d display Sherry’s collection, nothing. And I saw him watching me earlier, too.”