Beg For Me: Chapter 36

When I open the door at home, I find my mother lying on the sofa in the living room holding a tumbler of clear liquid I’m certain is gin. She’s watching a Korean drama. The subtitles aren’t turned on, and I wouldn’t put it past her if there’s yet another foreign language tucked into her stash of secrets.

If I find out she works undercover for the CIA, I won’t be at all surprised.

“I’m glad you’re home early,” she says to the television. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Not today, Satan.”

I drop my handbag on the console, kick off my shoes, and head for the fridge, leaving her chuckling darkly into her gin.

As I’m pouring myself a glass of white wine, she wanders into the kitchen and sits at the table, then proceeds to watch me like a hawk as I sip my drink and consider what kind of drug I could slip into her dinner that would put her into a light coma. Nothing that would cause brain damage or death, maybe just a nice, long nap she wouldn’t wake up from for say, oh, two to three decades.

She says, “I know that look. You’re plotting something.”

“Nothing lethal.”

“Too bad. I’m getting bored with all this domestic tranquility.”

“You know where the door is. Don’t let it hit you on the ass on your way out.”

Ignoring that, she says, “Why don’t we take a drive down to Venice beach, see if we can pickpocket some tourists?”

When I give her a warning look, she smiles.

“Mother, please don’t torment me today. I’m already up to my neck in assholes.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing I want to talk about.”

“Sounds serious.”

“It is. Now leave it alone.”

She purses her lips and looks me up and down. “You’re angry.”

“What did I just say? Leave it alone.”

After a beat, she shrugs. “Suit yourself. But if you need any help, say the word.” She lowers her voice and leans closer. “I know people.”

“Which reminds me. I heard a rumor that you and Dad were a money laundering front for the Mafia.”

When I don’t continue, she prompts, “And?”

“And what do you think my next question might be?”

“I’m not a mind reader, Sophia.” She smiles and takes another sip of her gin.

“Forget it. I can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth, anyway. Let’s change the topic. How’s your apartment search going?”

“I haven’t found anything yet.”

“That’s because you haven’t looked.”

She waves that off. “I had an idea.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet!”

“And we’re going to keep it that way. Where’s Harlow?”

“She asked if she could go over to her friend’s house, and I said yes.”

Outraged, I glare at her. “She’s grounded!”

“Oh. My bad.” She calmly sips more gin.

“Which friend?”

She squints up at the ceiling and wrinkles her nose as she thinks. “Sam?”

“She doesn’t have a friend named Sam.”

“Could’ve been Pam. Wait, no—Tran?”

“You’re just making names up, aren’t you? You have no idea where she went!”

“She’s actually upstairs in her room, doing her homework.”

My temper snaps. I shout, “Then why the hell did you tell me she was out?”

“Because you needed to yell at someone, and now you have. Better me than her. What’s for dinner?”

I close my eyes and draw a slow breath. When I open my eyes again, the need to commit murder hasn’t passed, so I turn around and gaze out the kitchen window to the yard beyond.

I’m wondering how hard it would be to dig a hole deep and wide enough to fit my ex-husband and my mother in when Harlow wanders into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom. You’re home early.”

“Your mother’s homicidal at the moment, dear. Give her a wide berth.”

“What’s a berth?”

“What am I, Merriam-Webster? Use your context clues, Sherlock.”

Silence reigns for a blissful moment until Harlow says, “A berth is a place to sleep on a ship.”

I turn to see her standing next to the table, peering at her cell phone. She glances at my mother. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

My mother snorts. “Oh, brilliant work. Cracked the case wide open. Keep scrolling, genius. Words have more than one meaning.”

“Don’t be mean, Grams.”

“Ha! If I were being mean, you’d already be cry-texting your therapist.”

“I don’t have a therapist.”

“Good. Therapy is nothing more than Tinder for your emotional baggage.”

Irked by that unfair description, I interrupt. “That’s totally inaccurate. Therapy offers a structured environment where people can safely explore their trauma and learn the tools to help them heal from it.”

“No, it’s a place where people can pay hundreds of dollars an hour to watch a stranger nod while they cry. I can’t think of anything more depressing.”

“Harlow.”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Look at me.”

She glances up from her phone.

“If you ever feel like you need to talk to a therapist, I support that one hundred percent, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. In the meantime, you’re still grounded.”

“I know.”

I stare pointedly at the cell phone in her hands.

She glances at her grandmother and shifts her weight from foot to foot.

“No, don’t look at the architect of chaos masquerading as a harmless little old lady. Look at me, and tell me why you stole your phone from my underwear drawer.”

She makes a face at me. “I mean…I can’t really steal it if it’s mine in the first place.”

I arch my brows. “Yours? Did you buy it with your own money?”

Her eye roll is extravagant.

“Do you pay the bills for it every month?”

Her tone turns full teenage martyr. “No, but you gave it to me. So it’s like, mine.”

I hold out my hand and flex my fingers. “We’ll go over the finer points of property ownership later. Give it back.”

My mother pipes in, “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”

“Oh, so now you’re a legal scholar. What happened to all that business about how children need discipline?”

“She’s not my child, she’s my grandchild. Totally different jurisdiction.”

“How convenient. And I know you told her where to look for it.”

She clucks her tongue in disapproval. “It’s not my fault you hide things like a squirrel with a head injury.”

Harlow sets the phone in my palm. I look at it for a moment, then say absently, “I wonder if cell phones can be tapped?”

“Of course they can,” replies my mother. “It’s not even hard.”

I don’t want to know how she knows that.

“Mom, can we order pizza tonight?”

“Sure, unless your grandmother wants to boil up a brew in her cauldron.”

Without missing a beat, my mother says blithely, “I only use the cauldron on the full moon. That’s not until next week.”

“Then pizza it is. Carmelina, you’re in charge.”

As I’m walking through the door to the backyard, she calls after me, “It’s rude to call your mother by her first name!”

“It’s much more polite than what I’d like to call you,” I shoot back, then let the door slam shut behind me.

Settling into one of the patio chairs on the deck, I place my wine glass on the side table and dial Carter’s number. I’m not expecting him to pick up, but he does, sounding businesslike.

“This is Carter McCord.”

“And this is Sophia Bianco. How are you, handsome?”

“Hi! I didn’t recognize the number.”

“I’m calling from Harlow’s phone, which she isn’t supposed to be using because she’s grounded. She stole it from my room on the advice of my criminal mother. Did you know that cell phones can be tapped?”

“Of course. Why, are you planning on a new career in covert surveillance?”

“No, but I am wondering if you’ve ever checked your phone for bugs.”

“My phone can’t be bugged.”

“You sound pretty certain.”

“I am. It has post-quadrum encryption and Faraday-switch integration and runs on a custom operating system that wipes all data and bricks itself if unauthorized access is detected. All my devices do.”

I listen to the happy chirping of the birds in the trees as my brain tries to unfuck itself.

“You still there?”

“My mind has left the chat, but my body is present.”

“We’re very careful with security, that’s all.”

“We?”

“My family. I can’t tell you how many times someone has tried to spy on us in one way or another.”

The irony of it all makes me chuckle. “Oh, I think I can.”

“We’ve had everything from fake wi-fi networks trying to intercept login credentials to cameras and mics planted in hotel rooms to postal employees bribed for copies of sensitive correspondence. In the early days, I mean. Now, we’re bulletproof. My dad’s an absolute psychopath about security.”

“I’m starting to understand why.”

A brief pause follows before he speaks again. “Why do you say that?”

I sigh, my heart heavy. Then I tell him everything that happened with Lorraine, sparing no detail. When I’m finished, he’s silent.

“It’s not your fault, Carter. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He answers in a voice gruff and filled with emotion. “How’d you guess what I was thinking?”

“Because I know you, handsome. You blame yourself for everyone else’s assholery. This is on them, not you.”

“But if you weren’t dating me, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“In a way, I’m glad it did. It showed me the type of people I’m really working with.” I sigh again, leaning my head against the chair and closing my eyes. “I have a friend at the news desk at the Times. I’m considering giving her the recording, letting her write an exposé. If they’re doing this to me, there must be others. It could be the tip of the iceberg. What do you think?”

His answer is instant. “TriCast would issue a denial and say you created the audio using artificial intelligence. Then they’d release deepfake audio or video of you trying to blackmail them.”

That shocks me. I sit up straight, my eyes flying open. “What? Is that even possible?”

“Yes. AI can be exploited in many ways to sabotage people. It can fabricate videos or audios of people saying or doing incriminating things. It can create and distribute fake news articles or press releases that allege criminal behavior, fraud, or other scandals. It can write blogs, anonymous forum posts, and internal communications to leak to the press to target corporate leadership. It can post large volumes of negative fake reviews on platforms like Yelp or Amazon to damage a company’s reputation. It can use bots and sentiment analysis to flood the internet with negative posts or disinformation campaigns about public figures or corporations. I could go on for about an hour, but the bottom line is that AI is an excellent tool for weaponized reputational destruction. If you leak that recording, they’ll tear you to pieces in the press. You won’t be able to work in this industry again.”

I sit with my mouth hanging open and a terrible feeling of doom settling on my shoulders like a lead weight.

He’s right. I know he’s right. I’ve attended corporate executive briefings and internal strategy sessions on AI adoption, risks, and opportunities, and received board-level reports on corporate content integrity and IP protection in the rapidly evolving AI landscape. There was even a crisis response simulation for deepfakes.

Which is exactly what they’d accuse me of doing—creating realistic synthetic media to discredit them.

Dismayed, I say, “So, bottom line, I’m fucked.”

“Yes. They’ll accuse you of everything Lorraine said they would and produce evidence to support their claims. Doctored, of course, but the facts are meaningless.”

“How depressing. Facts don’t matter? We’re in the news business!”

“No, we’re in the advertising business. Media is just the vehicle advertisers use to get their products in front of consumers. We don’t sell truth, we sell attention. Headlines are written for one reason only: clickbait. The more outrageous, the better. Facts are liabilities. The only thing that matters is engagement, because engagement equals money. And money, as every child begging their mother to buy them a new toy knows, is the only true form of power.”

I feel sick.

When I exhale heavily, Carter murmurs, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say sternly, knowing he’s still blaming himself. Trying to adopt a lighter tone, I tease, “Don’t make me come over there and give you a spanking.”

But my effort falls flat. Carter remains silent, lost in what are surely dark thoughts.

Worried what he’s thinking, I focus on practicalities. “Considering everything, then, the only reasonable move is to give my two weeks’ notice and start looking for a new position.”

“No, don’t do that.”

His response surprises me. “I won’t allow myself to be blackmailed. And I’m definitely not giving those assholes any information about you. Quitting is the only way forward.”

After a moment, he says softly, “It’s not, though.”

Confused by the resignation in his tone, I frown. “What are you saying?”

His swallow is audible, then he says gruffly, “If we’re not seeing each other, this all goes away. You don’t have to quit, they won’t have any leverage over you…problem solved.”

My stomach clenches. My pulse kicks up. Suddenly, it’s hard to draw a breath.

I know what he means, but I can’t believe I’m hearing it. Shocked into silence, I wait for him to say something else, to give me a hint that I’m wrong.

Instead, he doubles down.

“You deserve better than me. I’ve only been a problem for you. With your ex, with your daughter, now with your job—”

“You can stop right there,” I interrupt hotly. “First, my ex’s opinion doesn’t matter. Second, I already told you I spoke to Harlow about you, and she was supportive.”

“You were being nice.”

Frustration has me raising my voice. “No, I was being honest. I won’t lie to you to prop up your ego. That’s not my style. As for my job, it’s replaceable.”

“You’ve worked your ass off to get where you are, Sophia. You’re respected. You’re experienced. You’ve paid your dues. You shouldn’t give that up for anyone, most of all me.”

My heart is pounding, but I try hard to keep my voice even. Getting upset will only make things worse. “I’m not giving up anything by leaving a company run by unethical people.”

A long silence follows, then Carter says with chilling finality, “Thank you for being mine for a while. You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

He disconnects, leaving me staring blankly at the lawn, his words echoing in my head.

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Not “are” the best thing. “Were” the best thing, past tense.

I didn’t think this day could get any more fucktangular, but it absolutely did.

I just got dumped.