Chapter 9: Terms and Conditions

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough
Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing
Chapter 4: A Way Out
Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free
Chapter 6: First Things First
Chapter 7: Contain the Situation
Chapter 8: Persona Non Grata

As she glided across the white marble floor of the courthouse lobby, Jasmine couldn’t help but wonder how it had come to this moment.

Marble pillars lined the room like a courthouse pretending to be a temple. The floor gleamed under fluorescent lights, polished to a slick, unnatural shine. It caught the movement of strangers in fragments—heels, briefcases, shadows sliding past one another without ever touching.

Everything felt too official. Too permanent. Like a place designed to take something living and press it flat into record.

It still didn’t seem real. When she had called her business manager, Kenneth Swipes, she thought she was just venting to a friend—pacing barefoot in the kitchen, staring at the ring John’s coffee mug had left in the wood.

“John and I are breaking up.”

But he didn’t give the sympathetic, sassy response she expected. Instead, there had been a pause—sharp, calculating.

“This is the worst thing you could have said. Call your lawyer immediately.”

“We aren’t married, Ken. I can just move out.”

“Jesus, Jasmine. You can’t move out. You’ve lived there for years. You have tenant rights. That might be your only leverage.”

“No, no, no. Ken, it’s not like that. I want him to move on, be happy. Just end it peacefully.”

“Jasmine, use your head. There’s a bestseller sitting in a lot of American homes with evidence that he could have a claim to your intellectual property. He could end your career. But maybe…” A sigh. “I’m not a lawyer—call your lawyer. You can set up camp in the house and use that leverage to get him to sign a contract.”

“He isn’t even named in the book. He doesn’t want that.”

“Girl, in a breakup, you don’t know what anyone wants.”

The conversation had woven a quiet, persistent fear into her—something that set up camp inside her and stayed there. It made her replay every conversation with John, examine every gift for hidden meaning, question what love even meant—and whether this was the real ending. Not the controversy. Not the audience.

A man.

A man she loved.

That was the start. Or maybe it had begun long before that—some small fracture she hadn’t noticed at the time.

Regardless, it had led to this: mediation. More amicable, more private, more flexible than court. That was how it had been sold to her. By a business manager, a lawyer, and eventually John.

For weeks, she sat in the same beige room—walls the color of parchment, a faint hum from the air vent overhead—with her lawyer, Karen Dent, a shrewd woman who spoke in clean, decisive sentences, and Kenneth, whose flamboyant suits seemed to grow louder with each session—emerald one week, electric blue the next, patterns that demanded attention in a place that drained it.

John sat somewhere else. Another room. Another version of this conversation.

Perhaps with Marvin. Perhaps with a lawyer.

Jasmine hoped he wasn’t alone.

No phones. No communication. No glances, no accidental touches, no shared looks across a table. 

No manipulation.

Just the mediator—a stout, perpetually winded woman who carried the weight of both rooms with her, breathing too heavily, speaking in careful, neutral phrases.

“The other party concedes point number eight.”

Not: John agrees.

Never John.

Back and forth, door to door, statement to statement. Jasmine began to measure time not in minutes, but in the mediator’s footsteps—each entrance a shift, each exit a pause.

She watched, with a strange, detached clarity, as the life they had built together—face to face, hand in hand—was dismantled separately, impartially, institutionally.

This was their third mediation session. How many more of these orchestrated dances Jasmine would have to endure, she didn’t know. It felt rehearsed now—like both she and John had entered asking for more than they wanted, only to slowly whittle things down to what they had wanted all along.

A clean break.

The mediator burst through the door, already slightly out of breath.

“Quick review of the current terms and conditions before we proceed.”

She placed a warm stack of freshly stapled papers on the table—the metal of the staple gleaming—and disappeared again before anyone could respond.

Karen flipped through the pages with practiced efficiency.

“This is good,” she said. “It has the house being sold, contents included, with the proceeds split fifty-fifty. That’s more than you could get in court.” She tapped the paper lightly. “He’s giving you full intellectual property rights to DommyMommy. He’s asking for a public statement announcing the breakup, plus a nondisclosure clause about his identity—which we expected. All the gifts are yours.”

She silently continued through the agreement.

“This is too good a deal. He’s going to come back with something.”

Kenneth leaned forward, rings overpowering his steepled fingers. “We can’t lose the IP.”

Jasmine held her copy, the paper slightly thicker than standard—legal weight. Important and permanent. She read the same sentence over and over, the words flattening more each time.

“Karen.” She tapped her shoulder gently. “What does this mean?” Her finger hovered over a paragraph.

Karen glanced down. “Oh. He just added that you return a statue. Marble—Aphrodite. Gifted to the petitioning party.” A shrug. “You can give him that.”

“But—”

The door swung open again.

“The other party is agreeable to these terms. Do you have any questions or concerns?”

The mediator stood there, chest rising and falling, a sheen of perspiration already forming at her collar.

“Jasmine,” Karen said, turning fully toward her, voice low and firm, “this is a good deal. I encourage you to take it. It’s more than you could get in court.”

“But it’s too much.” Jasmine’s voice came out softer than she intended. “It’s much more than you said he’d agree to.”

“Who cares? It’s legally binding. He agrees to it.”

“I…” She swallowed. “I need more information about the statue. Why does he want it?”

The mediator blinked, thrown off by the request. “I don’t know, ma’am. I can go ask.”

“Please do.”

The words came out weak and brittle.

When the door closed again, the room seemed smaller.

Kenneth exhaled sharply. “Sweetie, it’s one statue. You’ve got celebrities in your DommyMommy DMs who could buy you Michelangelo. Let it go.” He tilted his head, lips pursed in campy sympathy.

Karen nodded. “It’s an exceptionally good deal. I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“But it was a gift,” Jasmine said, more to herself than to them.

Kenneth waved the papers lightly. “You’ve got lots of gifts here—and more to come. This is just one.”

“Okay. Okay. You’re right.” Jasmine smoothed a barely-there crease in her skirt, grounding herself in the small motion. “Can the mediator ask questions about anything?”

“Yes.”

They waited.

The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of the vent and the distant murmur of voices bleeding through the walls.

Then—air displaced, door opening—

The mediator returned, visibly frayed, her composure slipping.

“All he will say is that he wants it. It should be—” she checked her notes, squinting—“and I quote—‘at home with him.’”

Something in Jasmine’s chest tightened.

“Tell him he can have it,” she said slowly, “and we agree—but only if he tells me how much it cost. I want the price.”

The room stilled.

Karen frowned. Kenneth’s brows lifted.

Jasmine felt it immediately—that shift. As if she had stepped out of line, broken the rhythm they had all been following.

The mediator hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I will tell him.”

Again, the door. Again, absence.

Kenneth leaned forward. “Girl, what is wrong with you? What are you doing?”

“This is not the hill you want to die on,” Karen said, sharper now.

Jasmine tuned them out.

She didn’t care.

Men played games—she knew that. She had built an entire philosophy around it.

But not John.

Not him.

The mediator returned, more quickly this time, irritation plain on her face.

“The other party cannot disclose the price,” she said. “I can’t explain further. He shared information that prevents him from giving you a number.”

Jasmine stared at the table, at the black type, at the clean, final lines.

Something inside her gave way—not loudly, not dramatically, just a quiet internal release, taking off a bra at the end of the day.

Even though she would walk out of this room with more than she had expected—more than Karen had predicted—it didn’t feel like winning.

It felt like losing something she couldn’t name.

“Fine,” she said. “We agree.”

Kenneth broke into a wide grin, relief flooding his face as he pulled her into a quick, celebratory hug.

“Girls’ night tonight! Then I’m drafting a statement on the breakup for John to review.”

Jasmine let herself be held for a moment, her hands resting lightly at her sides.

By the time she got home, the deal that had looked so clean on paper already felt dirtier inside her. She had won. She knew that.

But she did not feel like celebrating.

She wanted to call John.

But couldn’t.

The one thing she wanted most—cut off completely.

All part of the process. All direct communication between the parties had to go through the mediator until the agreement was fully executed and both sides had upheld the terms and conditions.

The end was too clean, measured, legal. Everything the start of their relationship wasn’t.

She dialed her father’s number. A man she could call now—and who would answer.

“Hey, kiddo! Finally found time for your old man, huh?”

“Hi, Dad. It’s been crazy.”

“Well, I try to keep up with the news. You know I don’t get it, but I’m so proud of you. Always been the smartest and most driven. I knew you’d be successful.”

The compliments came fast and familiar—and landed hollow.

She traced the edge of a framed photo of her and John.

“It’s not all success.”

“Well, of course the old guard complains. Hypnosis… that rapid-eye thing… it all sounds weird and new—till it works. They shut up.”

He chuckled, pleased with her. With himself.

Jasmine slid the photo from its frame. The paper stuck slightly before releasing. She placed it carefully into a moving box already half-filled with books pulled from the shelves. One by one, she emptied the frames and returned them to their places—silver rectangles, blank and reflective.

They would be sold for a few dollars. The money split evenly, like a judgment from King Solomon.

As if that were the fair division of a life together.

“It’s not the business part,” she said. “That’s easy. It’s…” She hesitated. “The mediation is over. Papers are signed. I have to move out. I can’t even talk to him until it’s all done. Until the house is sold. Until everything on that paper is done. Until we both complete our side of the deal.”

There was a pause on the line—not for her, but for him to decide how to respond.

Her hand drifted to the Aphrodite statue. The white, smooth face seemed almost lifelike as Jasmine frowned at the statue. Like any minute, the goddess’s plump lips would begin to speak, her arms wrapping around Jasmine.

“Jazz,” he said finally, “you are beautiful, rich, famous. I don’t think you need to worry about finding another man. You know, kiddo—one more your equal.”

He let it sit.

“You know.”

She did know.

Even though the breakup wasn’t public yet, the verdict had already been delivered. In comments. In message boards. Across social media. Anonymous usernames, verified pundits, her business manager Kenneth—everyone had an opinion about her relationship—many without knowing his name, how he took his coffee, his favorite kind of pie, or the shape of his heart.

The consensus—unsolicited and absolute—was that Jasmine was too good for John.

That she needed to move on.

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re right. I’ve gotta get back to work.”

“Jeez, kiddo. You’re always working. Surely now you can slow down a little. Rest?”

Jasmine looked around the library—John’s library, though the idea for it had been hers. Half-filled boxes. Gifts. Clothes. Books. The curated remnants of a shared life, reduced now to whatever she was allowed to keep. Her hand drifted to the cool marble face she couldn’t.

“I will,” she said. “But right now, it’s more important than ever. I’ve got a lot to do.”

“I love you. You know, I always wanted a daughter, and your mom—she was ready to give up. Five boys. Five! But I’m so glad we didn’t. I’m so proud of you. I’m always bragging about my smart, rich, famous daughter. The guys, everyone I talk to—they can’t believe I’m the father of the DommyMommy.”

He emphasized the the, because there was only one. 

Her. His daughter.

“I love you too, Dad. Bye.”

She hung up.

For a moment, she stood still, her hand resting on Aphrodite’s face. The goddess stared past her—serene, perfect, unknowable.

Jasmine lifted the statue and carried it to the kitchen table, placing it with the growing pile labeled, in her mind, return to John.

Maybe, after all these years, she had finally become exactly what her father had always said she would be.

Smart. Rich. Famous.

Perfect.

And like this fucking statue, she would never know what it had cost her to get there.

“Hey, beautiful,” she said to the statue. “Guess it’s time for you to go live with John.”

By the next day, Kenneth had moved on to what came after loss: narrative.

As expected, Kenneth was overdressed in tailored metallic trousers and a white, billowy silk blouse. Multiple pearl necklaces peeked out from the deep V-collar.

“So, I have a drafted statement ready for release. John has seen it and approved.”

Jasmine read through the brief paragraph. It felt overly curated and deliberately vague. The relationship was over. It was mutual, amicable, and clean.

“Ken, I don’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“In this world, there is no saying the wrong thing. You just say exactly what the public wants. They want it done, packaged up, and for you to move on. Honey, this is practically the same statement every famous couple uses when it’s over. It’s just the way it’s done.”

“Did he seem okay? When you spoke to him? About the statement?”

“It was email, sweetie. He responded quickly. I didn’t chitchat, darling.”

He reached into a leather folder.

“Girl, let’s quit talking about John and get to all these strapping young lads.” Kenneth giddily waved a stack of press photos covered in notes. “Each man has been in your DMs—look at the photos. I’ve got their names, brief bios, net worths. I already know which one is my favorite, but I’m dying to hear your thoughts.”

Jasmine didn’t even know where John was living. Probably somewhere smaller. Quiet. Dark. The way he liked it—lights off, blinds half-closed, coffee going cold beside him. He had never wanted all this attention. Maybe the only thing she could do to make it right was shine the spotlight on someone else.

She looked over the faces—smiling, touched up, meticulously groomed. Hair perfectly tousled, just messy enough to suggest effortlessness, but clearly engineered that way. Every jawline sharpened, every flaw softened, every man curated into something sellable.

She didn’t really want any of them, but she felt obligated to choose, so she began pulling out the ones she recognized.

An older actor whose sitcom had been popular when she was in high school—the kind of show her mother watched reruns of in the afternoons. He had played a lovable, slightly incompetent nerd. In the headshot, he was trying for serious now. 

A celebrity chef known for his fusion cuisine—Korean-Italian, Peruvian-Japanese, and photographed well under warm lighting and expensive plating. She had seen clips of him shouting in kitchens, then crying in interviews about his childhood.

A boy band singer turned solo indie artist—leaner now, sadder, tattoos creeping up his neck like ivy. His eyes carried that practiced vulnerability that translated well to album covers and late-night interviews.

“Ken?” she said, unsure.

Kenneth didn’t look up right away. He was leaning back in his chair like a man at a fitting, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, the silk of his blouse whispering as he moved. He flipped a photo with a manicured finger, a gemstone on the nail, probably real.

“Yeah, baby. I like these too. Famous enough to strengthen the brand, but not enough to diminish you.”

His voice had that warmth he used for clients.

“No, not that. Um…” She paused, trying to find the right entry point, the right framing. There should have been language for this—there was always language—but this felt harder. “It won’t be like in my book. They need to know. No sex, none of that. Just for… appearances.”

The word hung there, weaker than she intended.

"Hmm...makes my job harder."

Kenneth’s eyes flicked up, sharp for a moment, assessing—not her, but the implication. Then he relaxed again, twisting one of the longer pearl necklaces between his fingers, the beads clicking softly.

“Rumor is this one’s gay,” he said, tapping the corner of a photo without fully lifting it. “Closeted. Maybe that’s an angle. Discreet arrangement, mutual benefit, very modern.”

He slid that one aside, already losing interest.

“But I think maybe this one—” he lifted a black-and-white headshot between two fingers—“this is more our speed.”

The man in the photo wasn’t smiling. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Handsome in a way that had once been undeniable, now just slightly worn at the edges. The kind of face people recognized but couldn’t quite place without help.

“Desperate to be relevant again,” Kenneth continued. “Not my first choice, but definitely willing to play ball. Lots of stints in facilities for exhaustion—” he made a small air-quote motion with his free hand—“very public about his depression. We can work that in easily. Redemption arc. Reinvention. Healing through you.”

Through you.

Jasmine felt that land.

She took the photo from him.

The man’s eyes looked past the camera, like he had been instructed not to try too hard.

Jasmine held the glossy paper and looked at the face of her future. A comedian she had never heard of—with the lowest net worth of the bunch. Chance Darrick.

“I’ll reach out to him,” Kenneth said, already shifting into execution. “Make sure he understands this is PR only. Clean boundaries. Clear expectations.”

He leaned forward now, energy sharpening.

“But his career’s been in the tank. Last I heard, he’s mostly doing twenty-dollar autographs at conventions. Signing old headshots for women who used to have crushes on him in 2007.” A small, dismissive smile. “So even if he doesn’t want it to be just PR, he’ll take it.”

He placed a reassuring hand on her knee and winked.

“He’d be stupid not to.”

Jasmine didn’t respond.

Her thumb traced the edge of the photo, just slightly bending it before she caught herself and flattened it again.

A man she didn’t want, but a story she could sell.

And somewhere, out of reach, a man she couldn’t even speak to. Not yet.

Two weeks later, Kenneth’s choice had become her date. In a hotel suite stripped and restaged for glamour, Jasmine stood beside Chance Darrick while a styling team prepared them to be seen.

Jasmine felt uncomfortable as the stylist and crew dressed and undressed her, then dressed her again, working to get the right look for the premiere. Chance Darrick had a small role in a limited series released on a popular streaming service. It wasn’t expected to be a hit, but it was the biggest break he’d had in years.

Jasmine stood next to Chance, then stepped away, then back to his side as the team reviewed them separately and together.

“It’s important to make sure the looks are cohesive for the photos. Solo shots included,” a small woman with a pen in her mouth explained.

“It’s her necklace,” a man sitting on the floor stated matter-of-factly. “Too small.”

The team began going through velvet boxes of necklaces—sapphires, jade, diamonds, platinum—all on loan from the small Italian jewelry company Jasmine was a brand ambassador for.

“Maybe the tiara?”

“God, Whitney, no. Stop. That’s fucking awful.”

As the team squabbled over final touches and pulled out lookbooks and notes from the styling meeting, Chance rolled his eyes and looked at Jasmine.

“I’ve done book signings and events, but nothing like this. Not…” she trailed off.

“Red carpets are easy. Someone tells you what to do the whole time. Stand here. Walk to the next person. Stand here. Photographers yell—‘to your left,’ ‘to your right.’” He sighed and pulled out his phone. “You’ll be fine. Done this too many times.”

Jasmine picked up her own phone—not because she expected anything worth seeing, but just to have something to do as she stood there.

Her hands shook with disbelief as she read the email multiple times, making sure she understood it.

The mediator confirmed that the agreement was fully executed and her role was complete.

Jasmine’s mind began racing through possible next steps, but it wasn’t about the deposit into her bank account—not about the intellectual property, or even the marble statue.

It was about the man.

She took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, deciding she would text him—but not yet.

“Okay, Jasmine, Ms. DommyMommy, come here so I can put this on you,” a young, gazelle-like woman said, holding a loose, woven diamond necklace.

As she felt the clasp close and the base of her neck, the phone in her hand vibrated softly. She had just decided to wait when the phone made the decision impossible.

Just a quick glance at the text. Unbelievable. John.

Now that it’s all over, maybe we can be friends.

Friends. Jasmine almost laughed.

As if there were a word for what they had been.

As if there were a smaller version of it they could safely return to.

She read it again.

Maybe.

That was the part that stayed with her.

Not an ending.

No regret.

An opening.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

For the first time in weeks—

there was something she was allowed to choose.

Chapter 8: Persona Non Grata

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough
Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing
Chapter 4: A Way Out
Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free
Chapter 6: First Things First
Chapter 7: Contain the Situation

The business had grown—acquired competitors, added rows of personal storage units out back with corrugated doors in faded reds and blues—but its heart was still the warehouse: pallets, inventory, freight in and freight out for smaller companies that couldn’t handle storage, tracking, or shipping themselves.

John parked his truck beside Darrell’s familiar tan sedan, its paint oxidized and chalky from years in the sun. The lot smelled faintly of diesel and hot rubber. Somewhere inside, a forklift beeped in steady reverse.

No matter how big the business grew, it still ran like a family—full of bickering, grudges, and quiet favoritism—and John had always believed the fighting would work itself out.

The moment he pushed through the heavy metal door, the usual rhythm—phones ringing, printers churning, the distant thud of pallets—felt wrong.

As he moved down the narrow hallway toward his office, the voices hit him—raised, sharp, unmistakable—spilling out from Jeremy’s office.

“Payroll! And! Schedules! Payroll! And! Schedules! That is your job! Don’t come to me about anything else!”

The words cracked through the air.

A door slammed hard enough to rattle the cheap motivational posters curling at the corners.

Darlene from HR came out fast, eyes glassy and mascara just beginning to smudge, nearly colliding with him as her heels skidded on the worn industrial tile.

“Hey—hey, Darlene, what’s going on?”

“John—” she snapped, shoving past him. “I have payroll and schedules to do. No time to chat about whatever you are up to.”

She said you like it tasted bad.

He turned, watching her go—her back rigid, heels striking the floor in sharp, angry clicks that echoed down the hall.

John stood there for too long, then turned away from his office and pushed open his business partner’s door.

Inside, the air felt close, stale with coffee and stress. Faux wood-paneled walls boxed the room in, cluttered with leaning stacks of paper, open folders, sticky notes layered over one another like scales. A desk fan whirred in the corner, pushing warm air around.

“What the fuck was that about?” John asked.

The man behind the desk didn’t look like the Jeremy he knew.

Jeremy’s shirt was damp at the collar, his sleeves rolled uneven, his hair sticking up in back. He looked tired, unfocused. Maybe defeated.

He gestured weakly to the chair across from him—the leather still creased and warm from Darlene.

“I don’t care about your personal life. Never have,” Jeremy said, voice rough. “You’re a felon, but you’re the hardest-working, best businessman I know. Fuck… no asshole can make money like you. That’s why this pisses me off. You know I expect better.”

For a second, a smile broke through—quick, familiar. Then it was gone.

“But this business isn’t just you.” He leaned forward, forearms on the desk. “My family depends on this. So do theirs.” He nodded toward the warehouse. “I keep finding myself in the position of explaining you to people.”

A small pause.

“I don’t like doing that.”

John exhaled slowly, settling into the chair.

“Look—I love you, Kaitlyn, the boys. You know that. So just be straight with me… is this about her?”

Jeremy let out a humorless laugh.

“Well, yeah. You think you can date the DommyMommy and no one’s going to notice?”

“We’re not public about our relationship,” John said evenly. “I don’t take part in her business.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t sit there and insult my intelligence.” Jeremy pointed at him, sharper now. “I read the book. Anyone who knows you—really knows you—knows it’s you. And you know that. So don’t pretend otherwise.”

John didn’t answer right away.

“Would it help if I became a silent partner?” he said finally. “Of it I got rid of her?”

That broke it.

Jeremy leaned back and barked out a laugh that filled the room, echoing off the paneled walls.

“Jesus Christ, John. I’m not asking you to kill the woman,” he said, still laughing. “Hell, I don’t even want you to break up with her.”

When the laughter faded, he leaned forward again.

“I just need something I can point to. Something that makes this go away. Or at least quiets it.”

John nodded once.

“I’ll come up with something. I will. You know I will.”

“I know.” Jeremy reached into a pile and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper. “Hey—can you grab some stuff for the meeting this afternoon? Sandwich trays, drinks, whatever’s on there. Darlene ‘doesn’t have time.’”

“Might win you a few brownie points,” Jeremy added, like he didn’t quite believe it.

John took the paper, glanced at the list.

“Of course.”

He folded it once, stood, and tucked it into his back pocket.

“And I’ll find a solution.”

Before he could even leave the office, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Marvin.

The eighth ignored call today.

John didn’t need to check the screen. Either it would say Call me back, or worse, just Marvin’s name—steady and patient, like he’d be there whenever John decided to stop lying.

He wasn’t going to call back anytime soon. Some things were too hard to hide from a sponsor who had known him drunk and sober, boy and man.

He sat down at his desk and caught the smell immediately. Grimacing, he tossed a half-eaten sandwich, its bread gone yellow with mold, into the trash.

His hand moved automatically to the bottom-right drawer.

He stopped.

Looked at the office door.

Locked.

He pulled the drawer open and took out the bottle.

It was one of many now, not hidden so much as distributed: desk, truck, garage.

He twisted the cap off.

The first bottle had been different.

The first had been bought with the same strange amnesia reserved for long drives—when you arrive and don’t remember the road. A lunch break like any other. Errands. Bread. Something for dinner. Dessert.

He had walked past the liquor aisle countless times without a second thought.

There had been no reason to think that one day his hand—without asking him—would take a bottle of vodka and set it in the cart beside a baguette and a pie like it belonged there.

It hadn’t even registered as wrong—until the cashier hesitated.

Even then, he told himself: just a sip. No one has to know. Go to an AA meeting in the morning. Let it disappear like anything else.

Just a sip became a sip an hour.

And now—today—he knew he wouldn’t make it to the end of the workday without another bottle.

He leaned back in the chair, the bottle smooth in his hand and Darlene's list in the other.

Just get the stuff for Darlene. Get the booze. One trip. Efficient.

The phone on his desk rang, and he quickly—noisily—fumbled the bottle back into the drawer.

“Yes?”

“John, why is Marvin calling me, concerned about you?” Jasmine asked, her voice sharp with worry.

“I’m just busy, Jazz. Really busy. The storage units, the new acquisition—”

“Yeah, but you can answer and say I’m busy. He’s worried sick, like you’re dead or drunk.”

John began tearing at a water-warped sticky note, shredding it into thin strips between his fingers. “He gets like that. I’ll call him back.”

“John…” Her voice softened. “I’m worried about you too.”

“Yeah, well, you’re plenty busy,” he shot back. “Don’t you have a business manager to meet with?”

She sighed heavily into the receiver.

“John, I’m not having this conversation again. This isn’t the 1940s, and I’m not doing full ‘anonymity at the level of press and film,’” she quoted AA with clipped precision. “This is a social media world—with brand deals and business managers.”  

“I know. I know.” He rubbed his forehead, eyes drifting back to the drawer. “It’s going to be late tonight. We’ve got that employee meeting. I’ve got to pick stuff up for it.”

“John… maybe hit a meeting too? The AA kind? You sound off. On edge.”

He rolled his eyes, his hand hovering near the drawer again. “I’ve got to get going.”

“I love you.” She said it like a reminder, like a habit she was trying to keep intact.

“Love you too.”

The line went dead.

John stared at the phone for a moment, then down at the drawer.

He needed another bottle. Maybe two.

And he still had Darlene’s list to deal with.

As he was leaving, Darlene stepped into his path like she’d been waiting for it, one hand braced against the doorframe, the other clutching her clipboard to her chest.

“Jeremy said you’re picking up the stuff for the employee meeting this afternoon. Don’t forget. Seriously, John.”

“I’m going there right now,” he snapped, jerking his thumb toward the door. “I’d probably be back already if you hadn’t stopped me.”

Darlene didn’t move. Twenty years in the office had given her that immovable quality. She knew everyone’s schedules, everyone’s business—who was late on invoices, who was getting divorced, who was about to get fired before they did.

“Hey,” she said, lowering her voice, trying for something softer and not quite landing it, “I know we’ve never been… friends. But you are a mess. I can’t keep quiet about this.”

Her blond, 1980s permed mullet barely moved when she tilted her head, but there was something practiced in the gesture.

“Fucking talk to everyone, Darlene,” he said, shoving past her shoulder. “I don’t care.”

“I already have,” she called after him, not loud, just matter-of-fact. “Jeremy asked me what was going on.”

That landed, but he didn’t turn around.

“People notice, John,” she added. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He pushed through the door.

He needed another bottle. He needed two or three. He couldn’t keep running out like this.

Behind him, the door creaked shut, and for a second he imagined her still standing there, watching, writing something down on that clipboard in her tight, slanted handwriting.

His old red truck fired up with a relieving grumble. Rolling down the windows, he breathed in the fresh, cool air. Only noon—only five more hours. Five hours to make it through.

The grocery store parking lot was too full for a Tuesday. He sat for a second with the engine running, watching them move in and out of the automatic doors.

Inside, everything felt too bright. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead just like in prison. He grabbed a cart and kept his head down, moving fast. In, out. No delays.

Three trays of sandwiches. Four cases of soda. Chips—he grabbed whatever his hand landed on, not even looking. Just fill the cart. Make it look normal.

A loud laugh broke out too close behind him. Someone coughed; for a second he thought they were trying to get his attention. A cart wheel squeaked behind him in an uneven rhythm, then veered away.

He cut toward produce, trying to stay moving, trying not to think about the clock, about the hours ahead, about how to sit through an employee meeting.

That’s when he saw him.

A man, salt-and-pepper hair, standing by the apples. The angle of his jaw—something about it—hit too familiar. John slowed, just slightly, watching from the edge of the display.

The man turned. A stranger.

John exhaled, but the relief didn’t land. It never did anymore.

At the register, the line crawled. The cashier moved like she had all the time in the world, scanning each item with deliberate, careful motions. Beep. Pause. Beep.

She looked up at him.

“ID?”

“For what?”

“For the alcohol.”

He stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

She didn’t smile. Just waited.

His hands felt too big and slow fumbling the wallet open, pulling the card free. He could feel the people behind him shifting, watching, waiting.

The scanner beeped again. The receipt printed in a slow, endless strip.

Every second stretched.

He didn’t breathe until the bottles were bagged, in his hands, and locked in the truck. Only then did the pressure ease enough for one small sip.

Seated alone in his truck, he saw another missed call from Marvin—this time with a voicemail.

Then a brief text from Jazz: I have a fun and evil lil thought. Want to make it real?

He knew what it meant. He sent her $1,000 through CashApp, even though she was richer than him at this point. It was tradition. Their language.

He took another quick swig from the new bottle when his phone rang. Jasmine.

“John, honey, I’m disappointed. Only a grand?” she teased, her voice laced with playful sexiness.

“You know I’m busy.”

“I’m busy too, but I always make time for you. You’re just brushing me aside again. Just talk to me. You used to talk to me.”

He gripped the steering wheel until his hands flushed an angry red.

“You don’t know what I’m dealing with. I have to find a solution to a problem I don’t want to go away… and don’t know how to live with”

“Well, what’s the problem? Maybe I can help.” She sounded so calm it almost made him angry.

“It’s you. Not you. Not us when it’s just us. It’s all the extra bullshit that came with it.”

Uneasy silence stretched between them.

“Are you breaking up with me? Over the phone?” she asked confused.

“No. No. No.”

But he wasn’t so sure.

“John, what are you trying to say? I can’t even understand you.” A pause, heavy and searching. Then, more carefully: “Are you drunk?”

He couldn’t tell if he was slurring. He thought he sounded clear. But suddenly his stomach lurched, and everything inside him tilted—his thoughts, her voice, the world outside the windshield.

“Jazz… I can’t. I can’t.” He kept repeating it, the words slipping loose from meaning.

“You can’t what?”

“Fucking do this, Jazz!” he shouted, hurling the phone across the passenger seat full of sandwiches.

It struck the passenger-side window with a violent crack—then exploded outward, glass bursting outward in a spray across the pavement.

The sound rang sharp and final in the cab. Cold air rushed in through the shattered window. He didn’t move for a second. Then he started the truck. He drove. He didn’t know how long.

John awoke lying awkwardly on the floor of what—once he pried his eyes open—was obviously a hotel room. Multiple days had gone stale in his mouth. For a moment, he didn’t move. The ceiling swam slightly, as if it was more alive than him.

He vaguely remembered fighting with Jasmine and the issues at work, but the recent past stretched behind him in dark, uneven flashes—images that slipped away the moment he tried to hold them.

His body ached and screamed. His tongue felt like a thick slug dead in his mouth. A dull, pulsing pressure sat behind his eyes.

A pool of thick, foul-smelling vomit had dried beside him. The sour smell hit him a second too late, turning his stomach. He swallowed hard.

Carefully, he pushed himself upright, pausing when the room shifted just enough to make him grab the edge of the bed.

In the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth out in the sink, letting the water run, watching it spiral down as he steadied himself. He splashed his face, once, twice.

He checked his pockets—wallet and keys. Still there. A good sign.

After an uncomfortable exchange with an overly chipper front desk clerk, he looked at the receipt and realized two days had passed without him. The number didn’t land at first. Two days.

It took longer than it should have to find his truck in the parking lot.

The passenger-side window was busted out, and a long, wavering scratch in the red paint told him more than he was willing to acknowledge just yet. The sandwich trays still sagged in the passenger seat, melted and ruined.

He couldn’t go to work, where he had let everyone down. And he could not go home—not to Jasmine, not to the house that no longer resembled his childhood. A place where he would be faced with a problem he couldn’t solve.

So he drove to the one place he knew the door would open—would welcome him in, no matter what had happened. He pulled into the driveway, which greeted his tires like an old friend.

He knocked on the door, bracing himself against the brick wall.

The door opened.

“Marvin, I’m in deep.”

“Come in, man. Come in.”

Chapter 7: Contain the Situation

Prologue: His New Addiction
Chapter 1: Money Well Spent
Chapter 2: Close Enough
Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing
Chapter 4: A Way Out
Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free
Chapter 6: First Things First

As his wife smoothed his collar and straightened his tie, Denise said, “I’m glad you listened to me and shaved off the mustache.”

“Thanks. It's almost time. You’d better get out of here.”

He sat in the chair facing a laptop balanced on a stack of books atop a TV tray. He could see the small square preview video. Though the setup was crude, Denise was right—it gave him a distinguished backdrop: his expansive bookshelf and the sliver of wall next to it where his diplomas hung. Credentials. 

A production assistant’s face filled the screen.

“Hello, Dr. Morrison. I’m just going to test the connection, and then I’ll go over the process, time limits, and guidelines for the panel.”

Since the 24-hour news cycle had become a permanent fixture of American culture, he had participated in a dozen of these experts-weigh-in-on-current-events panels: the pros and cons of Viagra when it first came out, the rise of STDs in retirement communities, the decline of teen pregnancy.

In the early years, however, he would go to a local sister station and sit with a crew, lights, makeup, and a production assistant actually in the room with him. Professional and polished how work should be done.

But now everything was done over the internet and alone. He sat in his own home, with only his wife to help. In the room where his youngest daughter had slept until she moved out. 

Normally he didn’t mind participating in a filler news segment to plug gaps in the broadcast schedule. However, the president of the university had made it clear they intended for this segment to help “contain the situation.” So he spent a week composing rebuttals in the shower and jotting phrases from her interviews on legal pads, circling the same words over and over.

By “the situation,” he of course meant the institution’s recent dropout and newly notorious alumna, Jasmine Kopernick.

That pebble in Dr. Morrison’s shoe that continued to poke the tender sole of his foot no matter how many times he tried to shake her off.

The production assistant smiled and held up five fingers.

“The countdown begins now… five… four… three…”

One and two were fingers only—silent.

Four faces filled the screen.

A female news anchor behind a studio desk, long blonde hair in loose curls, with the plump lips and hollow cheeks that all TV personalities seemed to have developed in the last few years.

A man with a crew cut and polo shirt, seated in front of an American flag with the male symbol printed on it.

Jasmine Kopernick, sitting casually, with an artfully arranged bowl of oranges and a nude female statue—perhaps a foot tall—on a table to her right.

And himself.

Bloated. Red-faced. Too fat. Too old. Sitting in front of a wall of books, awards, and framed paper.

The news anchor gave them a bright, television-friendly smile and slipped into her on-air voice.

“We are joined now by Dr. Timothy Morrison of the Men’s Sexual Performance Laboratory housed within the Sexual Wellness Institute at Southern Wisconsin University, Jasmine Kopernick, cofounder and contributor to the DommyMommy blog, book, and subsequent movement, and Barry Smith, men’s rights advocate and host of the Man Today podcast. Welcome.”

A pause.

“The DommyMommy blog and the recent New York Times bestselling book of the same name have caused quite a stir. Jasmine, what do you have to say about this?”

Jasmine cocked her head slightly and smiled warmly.

“Well, the name DommyMommy is cheesy, of course. But the lifestyle is much more than that, and—”

“—But you understand why people find it concerning,” the anchor interjected.

Jasmine’s face seemed unfazed as she replied, “We’re just people sharing honest portrayals of our life and lifestyle. If people are interested in applying aspects of it to their own lives, that is a choice they make.”

The newscaster’s expression tightened, “Dr. Morrison, you have expressed strong opinions on Ms. Kopernick’s work. Your response?”

“I’m an expert. I have decades of academic, professional, and research—”

“—Dr. Morrison, hold that thought,” the anchor said. “I want to bring Barry Smith in.”

“I have reports of men swindled out of their life savings and then subjected to iron-clad NDAs. Men who have lost everything. Men injured or physically harmed. Sexual, physical, and financial abuse at the hands of women operating under the guidance of—”

“Ms. Kopernick?" the anchor interrupted again, "Your response?”

“No one is forcing anyone. Some don’t pay anything. For those that do have a monetary exchange, the men name their prices. But really—is this much different than OnlyFans accounts? Buying an engagement ring or a house for a wife? Subscribing to the premium content of a podcast? Can your followers name their price for your premium content, or do you?”

The newscaster leaned into a more serious tone.

“But Ms. Kopernick, there are concerns about your qualifications. When a world-renowned expert like Dr. Morrison cautions against your lifestyle, why would anyone listen to you?”

Briefly looking down, he saw his hands clenched into hard fists and forced them open. White crescents—ghosts of fingernails digging into skin—remained like little smiles on his palms.

He was enraged by how calm she seemed.
Confident. Reasonable. Approachable. Charming.

All the things he and the other man were not.

To the average viewer, they would appear to be complaining men angry at a woman simply living her life and talking about it, while she seemed like a lovely woman only asking to be left in peace. 

Jasmine smirked—or maybe it only seemed that way—and stared directly at Dr. Morrison through the tiny video box.

Morrison had the sudden, irrational thought that he was watching something escape.

“Who has read Dr. Morrison’s research? Peer reviewers, other researchers, students he assigns it to. It’s hidden behind paywalls and written in convoluted language. The average person—the person this research is about—can’t access it.”

If he had more time, he could have responded well. Convincingly. 

As if he didn’t partially agree that academia shouldn’t be a foreign quagmire to the layman. As if he didn’t feel guilty for his role in what she had become.

So all he blurted out was, “Our participants have informed consent. There are avenues to access it.”

Unsure whether it was a blessing or a curse, the men’s rights activist—framed by his American flag with the male symbol blazing across it—chose that moment to speak up.

“We need to quit worrying about professionals and experts and return the focus to the real men who are losing their lives and morale over feminist propaganda. Militant, anti-men women like Ms. Kopernick. Erectile dysfunction, mental health collapse, parental rights disparity—men are losing everywhere! This is where men should be holding the line—not following snake oil sold by women with breast implants like her.” He pointed at the screen accusingly.

Though crude, perhaps Mr. Men’s Rights was not completely useless in this segment.

Except, of course, the newscaster then shone a spotlight on the elephant in every room Dr. Morrison had entered since that blog and subsequent book.

“Speaking of credentials, Dr. Morrison—up until a year ago, you were considered Ms. Kopernick’s advisor. Is that not true?”

“That title has largely been a technicality on paper. There is a long record of my discouraging, refusing, and disapproving of Ms. Kopernick’s actions. Additionally, she withdrew over a year ago, will not be graduating, and I have not spoken to her since before the blog began.”

At this point, he should print that on the back of his business cards to save himself from having to repeat it so often.

“Okay, last question. Dr. Morrison and Barry, you both seem to agree that this is dangerous and harmful to men. But how do you explain the hashtag DommyMommy trending on TikTok, the spike in interest after prominent YouTuber Derek Gregory—Mr. D-Man himself—disclosed his own DommyMommy relationship, and the DommyMommy subreddit alone having twenty thousand followers? If this is so damaging, why do men and women seem to be flocking to it? Barry, you first.”

“This is a social contagion. A fad. It’s the Tide Pod challenge and anti-vaxxers combined. It will die down—but not before it does real damage to real men.”

Jasmine responded calmly.

“First, Mr. Smith’s podcast seems concerned about the male loneliness epidemic, yet condemns men who have cured themselves of loneliness. Perhaps it’s not right for the men who subscribe to his podcast—but you can’t deny the numbers. This started with just two people. Now we’re looking at tens of thousands of people at least interested in the information, if not incorporating these principles into their lives.”

Was that a personal and professional dig at their last conversation—when he had pushed her about the low sample size? A sample of two?

Probably. Yes. 

She smiled sardonically and continued.

“There are over two hundred true personal accounts on the website you can read. Anyone can read them. For free. But we are not saying all mental health issues—or even your mental health issues—can be resolved. We are just saying it has cured ours.”

Morrison had read several of the accounts Jasmine mentioned.

A few sounded disturbingly sincere.

"We’re almost out of time,” the anchor said quickly. “Final thoughts—fifteen seconds each.”

Dr. Morrison didn’t even hear what Jasmine and the podcaster said. He barely remembered what he himself had said. 

The oranges, the statue, the soft smile—none of it accidental. Of course she paused before saying two people. Of course she looked into the camera then. It couldn’t be coincidence that the anchor used Jasmine’s language—lifestyle, not scheme or operation.

As the video window closed, he knew one thing with certainty.

This was not mission accomplished.

The situation had not been contained.

And worse—

he had likely given it accelerant and momentum. 

Who even was Barry Smith?

He typed “Barry Smith podcaster” into the search bar, and a recent article from The Atlantic appeared as the first result.

“Barry Smith says in podcast he doesn’t read books because his brain is too advanced for them.”

This—and Jasmine—were who the American public would lump him with.

Equal-sized boxes on a television screen.

Equal authority.

He roughly rubbed his furrowed brow.

How he missed the days when Jasmine was only an apparition from his student past—appearing in his inbox as long, meandering emails that used too many words to say she still wanted to finish her PhD, but that her indefinite break would continue indefinitely.

Regretfully, for years he had hoped she would wake up renewed—ready either to finish the program or simply withdraw and fade away.

So for years he placated her when he should have extinguished any spark of hope.

Now he was being made to answer for his passivity.

A brief rap sounded at the door.

“Tim,” his wife called through the wood, “change your clothes. I laid them out on the bed. They’ll be here soon.”

Time to take off Dr. Morrison and just be Tim: husband to Denise, father to Jamie and Jessica, golf enthusiast, and most assuredly not late for a dinner party with friends.

He would put on the dress shirt and slacks laid out on the bed. He would sit at the formal dining room table, its two leaves expanded to fit fifteen, and eat the lovely Julia Child–inspired meal his wife had prepared for the occasion. They would use the expensive plates that normally resided in the china cabinet, watching the family eat sandwiches off paper towels any other evening.

He would laugh, enjoy time with his friends, and just be Tim for the rest of the night.

Just Tim had no situation to contain. No dean or president to answer to on Monday.

Within the circle of their friends—stabbing, cutting, chewing, swallowing bites of beef Wellington—Madeline, a longtime friend and generally clueless woman, paused to ask:

“Did anyone catch Tim’s segment on CNN tonight?”

Just Tim hadn’t lasted long.

For decades his career had been a delightful source of dinner-table conversation fodder. Guests were delighted, titillated, enraptured, or horrified by salacious tales: men whose honeymoons ended in the ER due to drug-induced erections lasting longer than seventy-two hours, or stories of men who developed Pavlovian arousal at the smell of gasoline due to childhood abuse.

Madeline couldn’t know that this time it wasn’t a little anecdote like in the past.

The excited murmuring of the other guests showed they had seen the segment—and were pressing for more information.

As a young man, he had loved Frankenstein and empathized with the misunderstood monster. But for the past few months, he had come to see himself as Dr. Frankenstein.

Precariously balancing the impossible task of warning the villagers of imminent danger—a monster on the loose—while also trying to make them understand how he hadn’t seen it coming as he created it.

He tried to explain it without sounding hysterical.

Too calm, and they would laugh it off.
Too alarmed, and they would stop listening.

“Yes, at this point most people have heard of DommyMommy—the blog, the book. It’s become something of a phenomenon.”

He had the absurd urge to use air quotes around "New York Times Best seller" and ask whether anyone at the table had read her "book."

“But I met her when she was eighteen, nineteen. She wanted to research sexual confidence through successful experiences and it seemed aligned with my work with pharmaceutical treatments.”

He tried to choose his words carefully. They needed to understand how he couldn’t have seen the clearly until recently.

“She isn’t the first—nor will she be the last—student who wants to study human sexuality because they have some adolescent wet dream to pursue. Most eventually let the fantasy go and get serious.”

A pause.

“She never did.”

Looking around the table, he saw nodding, friendly, understanding faces. It emboldened him to pivot—to arrive at the stark warning he actually wanted to deliver.

“Her clinicals were a turning point. It should have been simple—hand out rubbers, pamphlets, easy enough. But she started interviewing prostitutes and call girls. I told her to stop. Then she said she wanted to become a stripper, and I told her no. But she has this way about her. She talks about unethical and manipulative things in ways that seem logical. Becoming a stripper, to her, was like a field trip to the zoo for a biology class.”

He paused. 

“You can imagine my shock when I found out she took it further and became a hooker.”

It wasn’t new information about Jasmine Kopernick, yet the faces around the table had gone grave. They had stopped eating to focus on him.

He needed to pull back—to regain sympathy.

“She could only take a break or withdraw. Hell, I encouraged it. Get her head right. That was years ago.”

David, abandoning his usual jovial style, voiced the thought hovering around the table.

“I don’t understand. How long was the break? I thought she withdrew last year.”

“God damn it.”

He slammed a damp fist on the table, making a wine glass wobble back and forth to his wife’s wide-eyed horror.

“Maybe I was too soft. Maybe I held out hope she would come to her senses. Maybe I liked her! She wasn’t the smartest student ever—but smart enough to get into grad school. Charming. Nice girl. What can I say?”

Approving nods moved around the table as his wife said gently, “Tim has always been softhearted with his students.”

Their sympathy made something in him panic.

“Don’t think this is safe. She has taken up a crusade. I’m no prude—I’ve been in this field for decades, from the early days, when we still had to borrow professors from sociology and anthropology just to cover the classes. Have your kink, your orgies, cuckolding, whatever. But this—this isn’t some harmless cute blog.”

He heard himself talking and recognized the tone at once: the shrill register of a man losing the room.

He told himself to lower his voice. Instead he leaned in.

“Mark my words. The next Charles Manson! Or Jim Jones! Jasmine Kopernick!”

Even as he said Manson, some part of him knew it was too much. He said it anyway. Another heavy fist shook the table, finally tipping a glass of red wine over. 

“Jesus Christ, Tim! Listen to yourself.”

His wife jumped from her chair and began sopping up the spreading red stain with a napkin.

“Oh Denise, let me help,” Madeline chimed in, the two women bustling toward the kitchen for cleaning supplies.

Silence fell over the table.

Frightened and confused faces.

His friends. Too far yet again.

“Tim, really? It’s not a big deal. Popular this week and gone the next. It’s just another sex thing.”

“Yeah. It’ll be like the planking challenge or swallowing goldfish. Wake up one day and it’ll be DommyMommy who?”

The group sat through several minutes of uncomfortable silence before David ended the tension.

“So… who’s excited for the Packers game this weekend?” 

“Oh, I can’t wait. We’re going to slaughter them.”

Maybe Timothy Morrison, PhD was just an old man.

Maybe it really would all pass.

But as his friends talked football and his wife cleaned up the mess he had made, he sat there smiling along—

alone inside his own mind.

Jasmine.

Her followers were everywhere now—forums, videos, comment threads, even his inbox. In emails he tried not to read too closely, men thanked her. Some of them even claimed it had helped them. He tried not to think about those messages.

How could he—one man—protect the world from something he had helped create through nothing more than passivity?

He wondered—too late—whether indulging her all those years had been a mistake.

And now the system he believed in could not stop it.

To do things the right way required peer review. Publishing fees. Editorial boards. Months—maybe years—before evidence could reach the public. If ever. 

Meanwhile she had probably already written ten pages about the news segment.

Photos. Clips. Links blasted across TikTok, Instagram, and whatever platform came next.

It had likely already been read by more people than his last research article, and tonight had only made it bigger. Millions had watched her sit there—calm, confident—legitimized by him and another fool on national television.

For months—no years—he had told himself that she would fade away.

Instead she had grown.

Louder. Larger. Untouchable.

Now that he was finally shouting warnings, the world seemed to believe exactly what he once had—that she would disappear on her own.

He didn’t believe in God. But he prayed anyway.

That maybe—just maybe—this time what he had made would vanish overnight.

Even as he knew she wouldn’t.

That night, after everyone was gone and Denise was in bed, he would return to his office. His laptop still glowed on the desk.

A notification blinked.

New post: DommyMommy CNN Appearance.

Thousands of comments already.