“No, I was running late. Why?”

Her friend leaned in, lowered her voice. “Have you heard of Tag a Sugar Baby?”

Oh, shit. “No.”

“It’s an Instagram page that outs escorts and sponsored girls.” She took a deep breath. “Someone sent a screen shot of you to that page. They posted it.”

“How did you see it?” Nat’s voice was shrill with panic. “Do you follow that page?”

“No, of course not. I think it’s mean and ugly. But someone tagged me in the photo. And your Instagram profile is public. A bunch of your followers were tagged to make sure they’d see it.”

With trembling hands, Nat pulled out her phone and tapped the app. In the search bar, she typed in: Tag a Sugar Baby. The page had 8,045 followers. Beneath a tiny profile photo showing a girl in a bikini lounging on the hood of a Ferrari, it read:

Think you can get away with it, bitch? Think again.

And then:

Direct message us a screen shot if you want us to post a sugar baby.

With a sick feeling in her throat, Nat found the tiny photo of herself and tapped it. It was taken at the Metropolitan Opera. She wore a tight black dress, flawless makeup, and a self-satisfied smile. She remembered taking the selfie—Gabe had gone to the lobby to make a phone call, so she’d snapped it, sitting in her deep red seat in the opulent theater. It was the first (and only) time she’d been to the opera, so she’d posted it. She’d thought sharing her glamorous experiences couldn’t hurt, now that she didn’t have to worry about her roommates. She’d thought wrong.

Beneath her photo was a caption:

Full-time student with an NYC apartment, nights at the opera, Michelin-starred restaurants, alone in every pic = #sugarbaby #sponsoredgirl #thanksdaddy

Nat went pale. Her mom was on Instagram. (What better way to show off her highly photogenic blond children?) Had she seen this? By tapping the image, Nat was able to see who had been alerted to the salacious post. Her mom’s name appeared, along with another classmate from SVA, an old friend from back home in Blaine, a cousin. . . . Someone had covered all the bases. Soon, everyone would know.

“Who would do this?” Nat gasped, but it had to be Cole. Even after the beating Gabe had ordered, her ex had found a way to ruin her. He would pay for this. . . . But there was no way to prove it was Cole. And there were other possibilities, too many. Mara and Toni. Miguel. Even Ava might have betrayed Nat, may have felt she was protecting her.

“There’s a website too,” Keltie said. “You’re on it.”

“Oh my god . . .”

“I don’t care what you do to make money. It’s your body; it’s your life. But not everyone feels that way.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” The voice was male, hostile. Ivan. Keltie must have shared the page with him.