Chapter 1 - The Viral Aftermath
The internet is an insatiable beast, and by Monday morning, Renee and I were its favorite meal.
When I woke up, my phone was hot to the touch. The TikTok video had crossed ten million views. People were dissecting our expressions, analyzing the acoustics of the ballroom, and making slow-motion edits of Renee catching the bouquet. I was being hailed as an "introvert king," while Sasha and Kian’s social media accounts had completely vanished under a wave of public scrutiny.
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at a text from my manager: “Alan, HR needs you in the main conference room at 9:00 AM sharp. Bring any documentation regarding your arrangement with Renee.”
My stomach dropped. I hadn't even brushed my teeth, and my career was already on life support.
When I arrived at the office, the atmosphere was suffocating. The breakroom—usually loud with gossip—went dead silent the moment I walked past. People looked at me like I was a ghost, or worse, a celebrity. I kept my head down, clutching my laptop, and walked into the glass-walled conference room.
Renee was already there.
She looked exhausted but fiercely composed. She had traded her ruined wedding dress for a sharp, emerald-green blazer, her hair pulled back into a tight, professional bun. But when our eyes met, the corporate facade slipped just a fraction. Her hands were folded on the table, tightly enough that her knuckles were white.
Sitting across from her was Mr. Henderson, the Head of HR, and Sarah, our department director.
“Sit down, Alan,” Henderson said, his voice completely devoid of warmth. “I assume you know why we’re here.”
“The video,” I said, taking a seat next to Renee. Our shoulders brushed, and a strange, grounding warmth spread through me.
“Ten million views, Alan,” Sarah sighed, rubbing her temples. “The company logo isn’t visible, thank God, but both of you are clearly identifiable. Clients have called. The board is asking questions about a 'fake relationship scam' occurring within our engineering and marketing departments.”
Renee spoke up, her voice steady. “The arrangement was entirely personal, Mr. Henderson. It did not interfere with our deliverables, nor did it use company resources. It was an error in judgment outside of working hours.”
“An error that has dragged this firm into a viral circus,” Henderson countered. He looked at me. “Alan, did you receive monetary compensation from a coworker to perform personal services?”
“I did,” I said directly. There was no use lying. “One thousand dollars. But the contract explicitly stated it was outside of work. No office involvement.”
“We have a strict policy against financial transactions of a personal nature between employees,” Henderson said, sliding two manila folders across the table. “Under normal circumstances, this would be grounds for immediate termination for both of you.”
I felt the air leave my lungs. I had worked so hard to get this job. Fresh out of college, desperate to prove myself, and now it was slipping away because of a thousand bucks and a family feud.
Suddenly, Renee leaned forward. “If you fire Alan, you’ll have a much bigger PR disaster on your hands.”
Henderson narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me, Renee?”
“No, I’m stating a fact,” she said, her voice dropping into that razor-sharp tone she used when closing major accounts. “Right now, the internet views Alan as a betrayed guy who found real love. If the public finds out that the company fired the tech guy who was cheated on by his best friend and ex-girlfriend—both of whom work for our primary competitor, by the way—how do you think that looks? The narrative won't be about policy. It will be about this firm punishing a victim of emotional abuse.”
The room went completely still. Sarah looked at Henderson, an unspoken realization passing between them. Renee was right. The internet would crucify the company.
Sarah cleared her throat. “We aren’t firing you. Not yet. But we are placing both of you on a strict, two-week probationary period. No interacting during office hours unless explicitly required by a project. Separate lunch breaks. And absolutely no social media commentary. Clear?”
“Clear,” I said.
“Clear,” Renee echoed.
As we walked out of the conference room, I reached out and caught her elbow in the hallway, pulling her into an alcove near the copy machine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered. “You put your neck on the line for me.”
Renee looked up at me, her eyes softening. “Alan, I dragged you into this mess. I’m not letting them destroy your career because of my family's drama.” She looked around nervously, remembering HR's warnings, and stepped back. “I have to go. Text me tonight. Please.”
May you like
I watched her walk away, her heels clicking against the linoleum. We had saved our jobs, but the real storm was just beginning. When I got back to my desk, my phone buzzed. It was an email from an unknown address.
The subject line read: “You think you won? Check your doorstep tonight.”
