Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Just that easily, I make my decision.
"Let me see your laptop," I say, holding out a hand.
"What?"
"Your laptop. Give it to me."
Defeat bows her head as tears fill her eyes. She reluctantly slides the laptop off the table and hands it to me with shaking hands.
I flip it around to face me. "I'm logging you out," I say, propping a hip against the table and scrolling to the navigation menu.
"What?"
I reach behind me with one hand and grab a chair from the unoccupied table. It screeches across the linoleum floor, halting conversations all over the small diner. I see them glancing up from the corner of my eye but ignore the annoyed looks. They'll live.
"Tell me what you think of this," I say, spinning the chair around and taking a seat. I set the laptop in front of me, my hands flying across the keys as I login to a burner account.
"I'm so confused," she mumbles.
"Hmm?" I lift my gaze to find her watching me.
She opens her mouth to explain and then snaps it closed again with a shake of her head.
Poor kitten.
The desire to scoop her up into my arms whispers through me again. The need to protect her is instinctive, screaming for attention. The overwhelming need to fix this screams too. Right now, they're at war. I can't protect her from this and prove her innocence too, goddammit. I need her help…which means she needs to see the things that I know damn well are going to hurt her.
"This is her profile," I say, nudging the laptop toward her. "Take a look."
She glances at the screen and then leans forward. Her gaze darts in my direction and then quickly away, her body tense. I bite my lip to hide a smile as she subtly sniffs me and then mumbles something too low for me to hear. Whatever she says isn't a complaint. And then she realizes the profile she was looking at two minutes ago and the one now on the screen look vastly different. Understanding lights up her eyes.
"You're friends with her." Her eyes flit across the screen, her brow furrowing. "Who is Sebastian Thorne?"
"A friend," I explain. "My partner and I use this account when we need information."
"He lets you use his account?"
"No. The account is a burner account." He knows it exists. I cleared it with him first. But he doesn't have access to it. He just allows us to use his photo and basic information. The man is a millionaire—maybe a billionaire. No one turns down a friend request from a millionaire.
"Oh. Can I?" she asks, her hand hovering over the mouse.
I nod, giving her permission to look through Ivy's profile.
She starts scrolling.
I watch her face as she does, not interested in anything on the screen. I already know what's there. Fake Ivy, as she calls her, brags about trips out of town, designer handbags, and everything the Ivy beside me has never been able to afford. I'm guessing even when she modeled, her lifestyle was far from lavish. Photos of her during her modeling days are interspersed with snaps of her on stage, goofy selfies, and group shots of her and her friends. Every photo is full of comments and likes, most bordering on inappropriate.
"What the hell?" she mumbles, reading through them. Her emotions play across her face as she scrolls through them—anger, disappointment, disgust…fear. This is the insidiousness of identity theft. The loss of autonomy. Your name and face being used without your consent.
Fake Ivy encourages flirtation and outright sexual comments from dozens of men on photos that don't belong to her, likely never questioning what could happen to the real woman behind those photos. Likely never considering the compromising, outright dangerous positions she puts her in should any of those men take flirtation for consent. The woman beside me has no choice but to consider it. She has no choice but to worry about it. It's her safety this imposter plays with as if it's a toy.
Ivy sits back in her seat after several moments, dropping her hands into her lap. Her face is pale and drawn, her expression sick. Poor kitten looks like she doesn't know if she wants to burst into tears or pace herself to exhaustion.
I watch her silently, letting her process. Not trying to rush her.
"This isn't me," she finally says with an emphatic shake of her head. Tears well in her eyes, her bottom lip quivering. Anger sizzles in her eyes. She's caught between two extremes, still unsure if she wants to rage or sob.
"Do you recognize the photos?" I ask, slipping my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. Trying to keep my hands to myself is killing me. I've never wanted to pull someone into my lap as badly as I do her right now.