Ivy woke up drowning in silk.
Her first breath came sharp and panicked, her lungs filling with air that tasted and smelled wrong. There was too much perfume. Her hands clawed at the fabric tangled around her body.
Where the hell was she?
She blinked against the assault of morning light streaming through large windows she definitely didn't own. The bed beneath her was massive, easily king-sized, maybe even bigger. And it had an ornate headboard carved from dark wood that looked like it belonged in a museum. Above her, a chandelier dripped crystal teardrops that caught the sunlight and scattered rainbows across cream coloured walls.
Confusion crashed over her first. Then frustration. Had she gotten blackout drunk? Did Priya drag her to some rich guy's house?
'No… I was at my desk and…'
The broadcast!
She remembered everything now.
"Oh God," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "Oh God, oh God, oh God."
Ivy remembered how she had reached into her drawer and masturbated while 1.4 million people watched her live!
The memories crashed in like waves, each one worse than the last. Priya's texts in all caps. The live chat scrolling. The viewer count climbing. Her mother calling. The screenshot on Bwitter.
Everything!
By now it would be everywhere. Every platform. Every group chat. Every newsroom in the country, because nothing made journalists happier than one of their own imploding on camera.
Her coworkers at Channel 4 were probably already drafting their "thoughts and prayers" posts while privately screenshotting the best frames to send to each other.
She could see the headlines spinning out in her mind like a slot machine of horrors.
BREAKING: Local News Presenter Dies of Cardiac Arrest After Accidental Livestream Goes Viral
And the comments. God, the comments. They would dissect everything! Someone would identify Trevor by brand and model number within the hour, and the company would either issue a horrified statement or lean into it with a marketing campaign, and she genuinely didn't know which was worse.
Her mother had found out already, and her father, who still didn't fully understand how livestreaming worked, would have it explained to him by one of her cousins, probably in devastating detail.
Her grandmother, who was eighty-three and had a Spacebook account she used exclusively to share Bible verses and photos of her cat, would see a notification or a tag or a message from one of her church friends who would phrase it as "concern" while absolutely vibrating with gossip.
"Maria, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but I think your granddaughter was on the news in a way that... well... you should sit down, dear."
Ivy choked on a silent scream, plastering her hands to her cheeks.
What would they even write on her obituary?
Ivy Chen, 26, beloved daughter and weekend anchor for Channel 4 City News, passed away on Tuesday evening due to cardiac arrest. She is survived by her parents, her roommate Priya, and a silicone device named Trevor that she purchased during an emotional low point.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests donations to literally any cause that might make people forget how she died.
A strangled laugh-sob ripped out of her chest.
She was only twenty-six.
How could she collapse from the shock just like that and die from it!
This was her legacy now and what people would remember her for.
Her third-grade teacher would find out. That guy she went on two dates with in college would see it and feel vindicated for her ghosting him.
Ivy thrashed against the silk sheets, her fists pounding into the mattress. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be dead.
But if she was dead, why was she conscious and in a bed that looked like it cost more than her annual salary?
For the first time since waking up, she actually looked around the room. Really looked.
It was... stunning. The kind of bedroom she would see in architectural magazines or movies about rich people with too much money and impeccable taste. The walls were painted a soft cream that caught the morning light perfectly. Heavy drapes in deep burgundy framed the windows, pulled back to reveal what looked like manicured gardens outside with hedges and flower beds.
It wasn't at all like the sad patch of grass and dying bushes outside her apartment complex.
The furniture was all dark wood and elegant curves. A vanity sat against one wall, its mirror surrounded by small drawers with brass handles. A wardrobe that could have doubled as a small room stood in the corner. She crawled to the edge of the bed. Even the rug beneath it looked expensive.
"Where the hell am I?" she whispered.