By the time the second email came in, my coffee had gone cold.
It sat on the edge of my desk, a ring of dull brown marking where I’d set it down too hard. The office was all hum and white noise—printers grinding, phones trilling every few seconds, Harper somewhere behind me laughing too loudly at something on her screen. Normal. Safe. Bland.
My inbox did not match the vibe.
Subject: SECOND NOTICE – EMOTIONAL OFFENSE
I stared at the words, my fingers hovering over the trackpad. I’d deleted the first one yesterday. Spam, I’d told myself. A bot. Someone’s weird art project.
This one had my full name in the subject line.
“Ava, you finish the Q3 deck?” Harper’s voice cut through the cotton in my ears.
“Almost,” I lied. My throat felt tight. “Give me ten.”
She made some dramatic groan in response, chair wheels squeaking as she rolled away. I clicked the email before I could talk myself out of it.
Dear Ava Cross,
We have reviewed your case.
It is our judgment that you are guilty of the following emotional crimes: pattern of romantic negligence, avoidance of accountability, abandonment of a vulnerable partner (see: Ethan Maddox, case file EM-3471).
My chest clamped around his name.
There was more. Block text, clean font, like a legal notice. Screenshots: my old Instagram, a pixelated photo of me and Ethan at the summer festival last year, my smile wide and oblivious. A link to a forum I’d never seen before, full of usernames and rage.
The last line made my skin crawl.
We existed for him. Now we exist for you.
I jerked my laptop closed so hard the lid clicked.
“Whoa.” Harper’s chair creaked. I hadn’t even heard her roll back. “You okay? You look like you just saw your student loan balance.”
“I’m fine.” The words came out too fast. My palms were damp. “Just… glitchy file. I’ll restart.”
She spun until she was facing me, eyebrows raised, glossy hair swung over one shoulder. “Glitchy file, my ass. You’re white as the copy paper. You sure you don’t want to tell your loving, nonjudgmental work wife what’s up?”
The almost-hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up. Nonjudgmental. If only she could read my inbox.
“I said I’m fine.” I forced my shoulders to relax. “And you’re extremely judgmental. It’s your brand.”
“Okay, rude but accurate.” She grinned. “I’ll give you space. Ten minutes, Cross. Then I’m coming back with caffeine and nosy questions.”
She rolled away again. I stared at the closed laptop like something might leak out of it.
Case file. EM-3471.
I knew there were corners of the internet that had turned Ethan into a story. I’d seen the hashtags after everything exploded—#JusticeForEthan, #EmotionalAbuseIsAbuse. I’d read a few comments before I stopped. Before I realized I couldn’t argue with strangers who’d already decided I was a villain.
But this was different. Structured. Organized. Like someone had turned a Reddit dogpile into… a system.
My phone buzzed face-down on the desk. For one pulsing second I imagined it was Ethan, even though I knew better. He was in a clinic an hour away, piecing his brain back together. Ethan didn’t text me anymore. That was the point. That was the deal.
Unknown number.
I swallowed and flipped it over.
