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“My husband handles the—” As soon as I realize where the rest of my sentence was going, I stop, my mouth still open. I haven’t written a check or paid a bill in years. I have no idea how to access our accounts. But I’ll figure it out. “It won’t be a problem.”
Reese reaches out a hand, covering one of mine. “This has been a shock, I know. You will have to face things—questions, doubts, accusations, realities—you never could have anticipated just a few days ago. I’ll get you through it, but you’re going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”
I agree, and she flashes a set of teeth so straight and white they look like Chiclets. “Good. Now, it’s time to take control of the narrative. Of the three options where you aren’t at fault, number one isn’t interesting enough for the press to run with, and number six has too many unknowns to be interesting. Number five is your narrative. Your husband pla
I’m still reeling from how quickly Reese broke down my case and came up with a solution. “How do we do that?”
“Sex.”
I blink at her, wondering if I misheard. “Sex?”
“Clichés are clichés because they’re true. Sex sells, Poppy. For our purposes, that means sex brings in the highest ratings. If we give the press a juicy story, they’ll run with it.”
“But, Tucker and I haven’t had s—”
“Oh no,” Reese interrupts. “This isn’t about you. We need a woman to pitch as Tucker’s accomplice and his mistress. Give me a name.”