Cole Rinne sat on his bed, his phone held tightly in both sweaty hands. He stared at the screen with wide green eyes, his heart a frantic thump in his chest. At a different moment, the video might have been erotic. That afternoon, it wasn’t. His heavy breathing and dry mouth had nothing to do with arousal.

Cole swallowed and tapped the screen to stop the replay, dread pulsing in his stomach, pounding in his head. The email wasn’t a scam. It was real.

It was also ridiculous.

Where was he supposed to get twenty thousand dollars? His house was already mortgaged. His car was a lease. It would take months to gather that much of his income. Almost as long to publicize an emergency online auction of his clothes.

Cole typed the explanation and sent it back to the mystery account. He climbed off his bed and paced a patch of carpet, chewing one thumbnail, eyes on his phone. As much as he didn’t want the threat dangling over him for months, he hoped the promise of a future payment would be enough.

The reply made his heart beat faster: “Cash now, or you become famous for a new reason.”

The phone bounced when Cole tossed it on his mattress. Their definition of famous didn’t fit his. He was only a mid-tier influencer, but he knew what they meant. If he didn’t pay, his already thirsty Instagram followers would have a new reason to swarm over him. 

The room felt too warm, too stuffy. Cole turned on the ceiling fan. Arms wrapped around himself, he returned to pacing, the circle getting smaller with each lap until he was turning in place. 

He could borrow the money but every movie he’d ever seen said blackmailers never stopped with a single payment. Once they found out he had access to that kind of cash, they’d keep demanding more until he was broke and back to living with his parents.

The thought of his family finding out skittered along his skin with icy feet, turning him instantly cold. He glanced up at the ceiling fan and shut it back off.

His family couldn’t know, but with the email threatening to tell the world, he didn’t see how he could prevent it. Not by himself. He needed help. At the least, he needed advice. 

Should he tell the police? Could he trust them to take it seriously, or would they fake concern and pass the video around the precinct as entertainment? What if one of them leaked it? 

The local news wouldn’t care. Social media would.

So would his agent.

Cole yanked a carry-on bag from his closet and dropped it on his bed. He unzipped it with trembling hands, flipped it open, and stuffed underwear and socks inside. He tugged shirts and jeans from their hangers in the closet and neatly folded them despite the nearly panicked urge to shove everything inside in a ball and worry about it later. 

Social media wouldn’t be forgiving if someone caught him walking around in rumpled clothes. He was a model, and life in the public eye didn’t allow for bad days. Sick, exhausted, or frantic, he had to look the part or suffer the sharp edge of someone’s critique. He wasn’t interested in fielding attacks from multiple directions. This one was enough.

Cole zipped the bag with a burst of anger, picked up his phone, and marched through his house. Plucking his keys from the hook by the garage, he stepped out and hit the button to open the rolling door. He shoved his bag across the car to the passenger side and slid in after it.

There were a dozen people he could tell. Only one could offer better than pity. He started the engine, backed into the California sun, and headed for the highway.