Another sniffle. “I love you, Ken.”

  “I love you too, Ror. Now, I want you to go and relax. I don’t want you thinking about work, and for goodness’ sake, don’t read the tabloids. This hacking scandal is getting worse by the day, and you don’t need that in your life right now. That is, unless it’ll make you feel better to watch a few of the mighty get knocked off their pedestals. Because, in that case, have at it.”

  “I think I’m going to go back to sleep.” She sounded drained.

  “Okay, sweetie, you do that. Call me if you need anything.”

  Kennedy didn’t even have time to take a breath after they’d hung up when Jonathan was at her door. His expression said everything.

  She groaned. “Oh god, what now? Don’t tell me there’s another video of Roger out there.” She’d kill him!

  Jonathan entered without saying a word and took a seat in his regular chair. “I’m glad you’re sitting down and that I am too, because what I’m about to tell you isn’t going to be easy.”

  Sometimes, Kennedy conceded, their office manager could be a tad dramatic. He’d watched every season of Keeping Up with the Kardashians. “Whatever it is, just say it.” Monday was already off to a rollicking start—might as well pile on the sunshine.

  “ECO Apparel was hacked.”

  Her jaw went slack. “No!”

  Jonathan nodded. “Oh yes, and it gets worse.”

  Oh crap. She almost didn’t want to know, but the expression on his face said she couldn’t keep the bad news at bay, and willful ignorance wasn’t an option.

  “What’s worse than getting hacked?”

  “What’s in some of the emails.”

  “Did Phil call? How bad is it? Are they looking for damage control?” Kennedy would always have a soft spot for the company. That was where she’d gotten her start. The reason Token existed—in its current form. And the number of clients Phil had sent her way couldn’t be overstated. Helping them in their time of need was the least she could do.

  Jonathan, appearing uneasy, briefly averted his gaze. “There is an email chain about you.”

  It took several moments for Kennedy to digest that. “Derogatory?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but she needed to be sure.

  He responded with a curt, decisive nod.

  “How bad?”

  “Do you want to read the email chain for yourself?”

  In other words, he didn’t want to read it to her or spoon-feed her the paraphrased version. Which meant it was bad.

  Jonathan began typing on his cell phone. Moments later, her own pinged. She clicked on the link and the image of an email filled the screen. Taking a deep breath, she began to read.

  Sahara-Kennedy Mitchell ???

  Phillip Draper

  Tuesday, June 6, 2020

  To: Sam Weber

  She’s got some fucking nerve. But what are we going to do, the bitch has us over a barrel and she knows it. If she goes, she’s taking Sahara with her. We have no choice but to give her what she wants. But make goddamn sure you make her work for every fucking penny.

  Phil

  Pain shot through her like shrapnel from an explosion. A punch in the gut would have been kinder. Her shocked gaze flew to Jonathan, who looked equal parts sympathetic and blazing mad.

  Kennedy had been prepared for some sort of racist or sexist bullshit—what else would be newsworthy? Never in a million years had she thought it would be coming from Phil, whom, up until ten seconds ago, she’d considered a friend. She’d had dinner over at his house, for goodness’ sake. He’d recommended her services to his friends and business associates. She’d thought he genuinely liked her.

  Well, it was definitely time to put that fairy tale to rest for good. Stiffening her spine, she forced herself to read on.

  Re: Sahara-Kennedy Mitchell ???

  Sam Weber

  Tuesday, June 6, 2020

  To: Phillip Draper

  On her back. LOL. That’s all they do anyway, eat, sleep, fuck, and push out a kid every year so they can get on the public dime. This would be a step up for her.

  She’d always thought Sam was an ass. At least she’d been right about that.

  Re: Re: Sahara-Kennedy Mitchell ???

  Phillip Draper

  Tuesday, June 6, 2020

  To: Sam Weber

  As far as I know, she doesn’t have any kids, so a fucking unicorn. But she’s hot. I’d do her. I see a shit-ton of late nights in her future. She can be my first. LOL.

  Phil

  When she thought Phil had already reached rock bottom, he performed a Houdini maneuver and sank even lower. How had she not seen this side of him, astute judge of character that she was?

  Re: Re: Re: Sahara-Kennedy Mitchell ???

  Sam Weber

  Tuesday, June 6, 2020

  To: Phillip Draper

  Then sign me up for a threesome with her and the blonde. I won’t tell your wife if you don’t tell mine. ;)

  Kennedy wanted to throw up. The men were vile and reducing Aurora to “the blonde” was reprehensible. Setting her phone down, she raised her eyes to Jonathan. “I have a feeling they won’t be calling me to help fix this one.”

  Jonathan growled, baring his teeth. “Bastards. Racist, sexist bastards.”

  Kennedy rolled her shoulders before reclining in her chair. She’d never been one of those massages are the ultimate de-stressor people, but her neck, shoulders, and back wouldn’t say no to one right about now.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure this stuff happens every day. But you know what they say—what you don’t know won’t hurt you. Ignorance is bliss. That’s never been my philosophy. I hate being kept in the dark about things like this. My dad always said it’s better to know your enemies. Well, now I know.” She wasn’t going to lie—this one hurt.

  “What are you going to do? A reporter just called asking for a comment, and they’re going to keep calling—and digging—until we provide them with a statement.”

  Like sharks smelling blood, the media had already begun to circle. She, of all people, knew how this worked. But she was usually on the other end of reputation-damaging scandals, not personally embroiled in them. She needed time to think. Time to formulate a plan, because this kind of exposure wasn’t simply personally unwanted and intrusive. It wasn’t good for the agency. Certainly not the part of the business that required anonymity for their clients.

  “I’ll come up with something. Give me a few hours. In the meantime, tell the staff not to talk to the press. And if a client calls with concerns, send them through to me.”

  The day, which had just started, now stretched out like a prison sentence.

  23

  If what is contained in the emails attributed to Phillip Draper and Samuel Weber from ECO Apparel is authentic, I can only convey my disappointment at the language and sentiment expressed in the emails. That kind of appalling and unprofessional conduct cannot be tolerated if we ever expect to have full equality not only in the workplace but in all aspects of society. The Token agency, which was founded to encourage and facilitate a more diverse and inclusive workplace, no longer does business with ECO Apparel.

  Kennedy Mitchell

  Kennedy reread the statement, and once she was satisfied it properly conveyed her feelings—without the inclusion of a single use of the word motherfucker—she emailed it to Julie to check over. Although it wasn’t a legal document, it never hurt to have a lawyer read it over before sending it out into the world.

  Sahara commenced what would be a torrent of calls, practically shrieking furiously into the phone the moment Kennedy picked up.

  “I’m going to bury them if it’s the last thing I do. Girl, they are so done. Because either they go or I’m gone. I don’t care what I have to do to get out of the contract, I’ll do it.” Her friend then went on to use every derogatory word in the book she could think of to describe them. Surprisingly, the list was more expansive than one would think.

  At the end of her tirade, Sahara did an emotional one-hundred-and-eighty-degree pivot and inquired sympathetically, “So how are you doing?”

  “Apart from the tire marks from the truck that ran me over, I’m doing all right,” Kennedy replied wryly.

  “I know a couple guys who’ll rough them up for free. They’d do anything for a good cause, and if this isn’t one, one doesn’t exist.”

  Kennedy gave a dry laugh. Her friend played a convincing mafioso. Not. “A friend willing to commit a felony for me. I’m truly blessed.”

  “If not your friends, then who? We women have to stick together, especially us Black women. Let’s face it—if that’s what Phil and Sam said about you, can you imagine the shit they’ve been saying about me behind my back?”

  Sahara had a good point. Celebrity or not, the fact that a young Black woman was calling the shots regarding what was then a potential multimillion-dollar deal probably hadn’t sat well with them. They may not have expressed their true feelings via email, but she bet they’d communicated them.

  “If they did, they were smart enough not to memorialize it. After all this time, you’d think people would learn that nothing in the tech stratosphere is ever really deleted or private.” Sighing, she grabbed her stress ball from her desk and began to squeeze. “And imagine, I did everything I could to help them win their contract with you.”

  “How could you possibly have known?”

  “The total lack of Black employees should have tipped me off,” Kennedy replied wryly.

  Sahara harrumphed. “They were not alone. Dozens of companies were exactly like them. Plenty still are. You know that. But because of you, the company’s, what, ten times more diverse.”

  “That was because of you, not me. They wouldn’t have done any of it on my insistence alone.”

  “All right, all right, then I say we call it a draw. We did it together.” There was an amused smile in her friend’s voice.

  “It’s your clothing lines that are now half of their annual revenue. They literally can’t afford to lose your business.” Which put Sahara in the driver’s seat. If she wanted the men gone, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind—the men were going, going, gone. It was simply a matter of time.

  “And don’t think I’m not loving this right now. Which reminds me—I have a call from Donald Edwards to return. You gotta know he’s straight-up panicking right now.”

  Kennedy could only imagine. Donald Edwards, ECO Apparel’s CEO, must be beside himself. Value of their stock had more than doubled since the debut of Sahara’s clothing line. Anything that jeopardized the company’s bottom line would be treated like the five-alarm fire it was.

  After promising Sahara that she’d call if she needed anything, even if it was just to vent, Kennedy hung up.

  Then, as if a family newsletter about the incident had gone out that morning, like the opening of a spigot, the calls began to pour in. Her mother—who spoke while her father made noises of support in the background—was more the hovering, concerned mother hen than outraged, they will rue the day they were born parent.

  “My poor baby. Do you need me to fly up there?”

  “No, Mom, that’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “What would be wrong with you having a couple children by now? you’re almost thirty, not fifteen. Why don’t you come home for a bit? Take some time off work. Your father agrees with me.”

  “It’s okay, Mom. And tell Dad I’m fine. I really don’t want you guys to worry.”

  Her parents meant well.

  While her mother continued through a litany of things sure to help Kennedy through the ordeal—offering to next-day deliver her a container of pholourie, because wasn’t food the answer to most problems?—her sister called.

  Where their mother had covered the concerned parent, Cheryl had the outraged part down pat. The severing of a certain male body part required for procreation came up during the heated, mostly one-sided conversation. Making that another woman in her life willing to commit felonies for her. Her sister had always been protective of her, but this violent streak in her was new. Kennedy had never felt more loved.

  Her brothers were all brimstone, fire, and fury. So much righteous bristling masculine fury. They didn’t need to hire a hit man, as they were more than willing to do the wet work themselves. Cam and Jay could be scary intimidating when they adopted their do not fuck with my sisters persona.

  The phone calls didn’t stop with her immediate family. Current and former clients, friends from college, and even a long-lost friend from back home in Raleigh—Kennedy didn’t ask how she’d gotten her cell phone number—called to lend their support and express their outrage.

  By the time Nate called at minutes after noon, enough time had passed that the world didn’t feel as though she was still suffering the effects of the bomb blast that was Jonathan’s news.

  “Hi.” He sounded grim but oddly subdued, and she had never been happier to hear his voice.

  “Hi. I was going to call but the phone won’t stop ringing.”

  “He’s a fucking asshole. I knew there was a reason I hated the guy.” He tactfully avoided saying I told you so.

  “It looks like you were a better judge of character where he was concerned,” she conceded. Although, it wasn’t as if Nate didn’t have his own troubling blind spots. But that was a matter for another time, one they’d have to deal with eventually. Front and center now was the issue of the emails and navigating her—and the agency’s—way through the gauntlet of unwanted publicity.

  “I’ve met enough men like him in my life,” Nate stated in an uncomplimentary tone. There was some seething in there too.

  “I wish reporters would stop calling,” she lamented. For the most part, Jonathan was handling those.

  “Yeah, well, one just called me. He wanted to know what I thought about my girlfriend being the subject of such disparaging emails. Then he asked if I knew exactly what services your agency provided to ECO Apparel.”

  That was exactly the kind of attention she’d desperately hoped to avoid. Unfortunately, given the nature of the media these days, questions like this were inevitable. The hunt was officially on.

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I had no comment. Partly because, at the time, I had no idea what emails he was talking about. Google took care of that,” he said drolly. “After I read them, I saw red for so long, I thought I was going blind. Then I just wanted to beat the shit out of them.”

  Kennedy’s heart swelled. Not a felony, but close enough. It was the thought that mattered, and he must have understood that he wouldn’t be any good to her in jail.

  Her office phone started ringing at the same time Jonathan bellowed from outside. “It’s Clive Macintosh from Delany and Associates. He’s looking for assurances.”

  “Listen, Nate, I’ve got to take this call. I’ll call you later.”

  “I’ll pick you up after work,” he said in a tone that brooked no refusal, and she wasn’t in the frame of mind to offer one. If she made it through the day, she wanted nothing more than to end it in his arms.

  * * *

  With the exception of the clients who contacted her after the bomb dropped, Kennedy preemptively contacted the remaining. Better they hear the news from her than an enterprising reporter in search of a story within a scandal. That was, if they hadn’t been made aware of it already, since news traveled fast, bad news even faster, but salacious news was by far and away the fastest, touching one hundred times the people in one-tenth the time.

  The businesses she’d personally dealt with didn’t appear too concerned about their exposure—the agency having produced tangible work product for them in the form of training classes and inclusivity and diversity plans, as well as professional referrals. It was wealthy and celebrity clients, like Roger O’Brien who were worried about their names surfacing in connection with the agency. They’d been guaranteed anonymity and expected nothing less, despite the most sophisticated cyber hack and invasive email leak the country had ever experienced. Thank God her agency hadn’t been caught up in the dragnet. Some other smaller businesses hadn’t been as fortunate.

  To date, the casualties of the email leak included four CEOs, two VPs, and a dozen managers, all of whom had been forced to step down. The reasons ran the gamut from inappropriate office relationships to insider trading and every negative “ism” known to mankind. So far it was crickets from ECO, but a text message from Sahara an hour ago informed her a company statement was forthcoming.

  When Kennedy had read that, she’d rolled her eyes. I can hardly wait. Truthfully, she didn’t want an apology, which would be performative gibberish anyway. A flimsy Band-Aid slapped on a gushing wound, when a doctor, anesthesia, and stitches were required. She’d more likely believe words blurted in a drunken stupor than those uttered under the bright light of sobriety and media scrutiny. People tended to say what they meant when their guards were down. Phil and Sam—and all the others—had been caught with their pants down around their ankles.

  In the midst of a chaotic day—the phone would not stop ringing—Aurora called. She’d woken up at one in the afternoon to find her Twitter timeline filled with links to articles and videos covering every lurid detail of the disgusting email conversation. One of four cable news stations was covering the fallout wall-to-wall. It had taken Kennedy fifteen minutes to convince Aurora that she had it all under control and not to come in. For now. And with her friend’s approval, she finally issued the statement she’d written earlier. Hopefully, with that out, reporters would stop pestering Jonathan.