The Secret Wife Of Hollywood's Monk

Ivy wasn't just a D-list actress who groped a movie star.

She was Mrs. Holt Nicholson.

And she had just humiliated the man she'd signed her life away to in front of the entire world.

The vibration of her phone against the wood of the nightstand felt like a drill boring directly into her skull.

She gasped, shooting up in bed, her sheets tangled around her legs like a trap. Her heart was already hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a physical echo of the nightmare she'd just clawed her way out of. But the room wasn't silent. The buzzing continued, relentless, angry.

She grabbed the phone. The screen was bright enough to burn her retinas.

Alex Weber.

Her thumb barely grazed the green icon before Alex's voice exploded into the room, loud enough that she didn't even need to put the phone to her ear.

"Don't go online, Ivy! Do not open Twitter. Do not look at Instagram. Just... God, tell me you're still sleeping."

Ivy's stomach turned over, a cold, heavy stone dropping into a pool of acid. The air in her small West Hollywood apartment suddenly felt too thin.

"Alex?" Her voice was a croak. "What's happening?"

"You're trending," he said, and the way he said it sounded like a death sentence. "Number one. Worldwide. And not for the L'Oreal campaign."

"Alex, you're scaring me."

"I'm scared, Ivy! I'm terrified! Just... promise me you won't look."

He hung up.

The silence that followed was worse than the screaming. It was heavy, pregnant with a disaster Ivy couldn't see yet. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped the phone.

Don't look.

It was the same as telling someone not to think of a pink elephant. Her thumb moved on its own, tapping the blue bird icon.

The feed refreshed.

IvySnowMolester

The air left her lungs in a sharp, painful whoosh.

It was at the top. The very top.

She clicked it, her vision blurring at the edges. The first post was a GIF, looping endlessly. High definition. Slow motion.

It was from last night. The charity gala.

In the loop, Ivy was stumbling. Her heel caught on the red carpet. Her body pitched forward, a blur of silver silk and pale skin. And then, the impact.

She didn't hit the floor. She hit a wall. A wall in a tuxedo.

In the GIF, her hands flew out to break her fall. They landed on Holt Nicholson. Specifically, her fingers splayed wide, grappling for purchase, snagging on the cold metal of his belt buckle before sliding disastrously downward…

The loop reset. She fell. She grabbed. She slid.

But it was Holt's face that made the bile rise in her throat.

He looked rigid. His jaw was locked tight, his eyes dark and cold, looking down at her with an expression that the internet had already dissected and labeled.

Disgust.

Violation.

Discomfort.

Ivy scrambled off the bed, her legs giving way, and barely made it to the