“Perfect. You think you’ll be ready to run it in a couple weeks?” She looks at me and I nod in affirmation. She glances back at her screen. “I also have you down as covering the Jessup cologne launch tonight, yes?”
“Yes, and I’ll have a recap ready to run by ten a.m. tomorrow,” I reply, switching mental gears. “My goal is to get a quote from Olivia the mystery fiancée. If she’s in attendance.”
While it may sound strange for a women’s site to cover the launch of a men’s fragrance, events in the personal life of Eric Jessup, recently retired star pitcher for the Yankees and New York’s golden boy, have made him a trending topic among Siren readers. Known for the carousel of models and actresses he’s paraded down red carpets for the last decade, he shocked the world last month by announcing his engagement to Olivia Sherwood, a pretty but decidedly non-famous schoolteacher and high school ex-girlfriend from his hometown in Louisiana. Speculation is rampant that it’s a publicity stunt to rehab his reputation as a hard-partying womanizer.
While I’m curious about Olivia, I’m not exactly amped to spend my evening at yet another press event, which sounds exciting to outsiders but gets old fast: the bland, canned sound bites from the celebrity of the hour; the protective barrier of publicists preventing you from asking any real questions; the gifted but ultimately useless bottle of cologne I’ll pass on to one of my coworkers with a boyfriend or husband at home. Still, the potential to see and maybe even speak with the elusive Olivia—a woman who hasn’t granted a single interview or even been seen in public—is too compelling to ignore.
“I’m going too,” Nat pipes up. “But my goal is for Eric to take one look at me and realize he proposed to the wrong woman.” The group titters. “What? If Eric Jessup can fall in love with a commoner, then there’s hope for all of us.”
“You’re practically engaged,” I remind her.
She raises her left hand. “Do you see a ring on my finger? I’m keeping my options open,” she says breezily.
I shake my head, turning back to Cynthia. “Anyway, tonight’s covered.”
“Great.” She taps a few more keys, then turns to our relationships editor. “Jordan, ‘Across the aisle to down the aisle: How I found love with my political polar opposite.’ How’s that going?”
“Great. I’m interviewing this adorable couple, they work as rival Senate staffers in DC and their story is so entertaining, I swear it deserves its own book . . .”
I tune out as the meeting spools on, taking the opportunity to respond to some emails and approve a product roundup from one of our contract writers. A text pops up from Natalia: Legit starving. Placing a Serafina’s order now. You want in? I text back in the affirmative as Cynthia starts recapping our stats from last week, a signal the meeting’s wrapping up.
“Last week’s biggest hit and the winner of this week’s bonus is Daniela, with her piece about influencers inflating their numbers. Excellent work, Daniela,” Cynthia says to the spunky brunette lifestyle editor, who preens and waves the crisp hundred-dollar bill in the air. “Shares were way up, it saw huge numbers on social and got a lot of pickups. If anyone has any follow-on story ideas there, don’t be shy. Influencers behaving badly always performs.” She mouse-clicks a few times and squints at her screen. “The equal pay for equal work story got a big traffic spike on Wednesday. Unfortunately, we have our friends at Brawler to thank for the assist with their classy rebuttal: ‘But do women work equally as hard between the sheets? From the boardroom to the bedroom, by the numbers.’?” Jordan snickers under her breath and Cynthia gives her the hairy eyeball.
Ugh, Brawler—Siren’s nemesis and the thorn in our collective side. Just hearing the word spikes my blood with adrenaline, bringing with it the memory of Brett’s rejection like a fresh, still-stinging wound.
Originally founded a decade ago by a pair of college roommates as a site focused mainly on sports betting, Brawler unwittingly stumbled upon a substantial—and lucrative—untapped market: emotionally stunted man-children hungry for validation of their sports-and sex-obsessed lifestyles. Once the site’s scope was broadened to a more comprehensive “by men for men” format, they quickly amassed an army of rabid fans and never looked back. The content they churn out is about what you’d expect: sports scandals, toilet humor, click-through galleries of scantily clad coeds. With its provocative, clickbaity headlines and misogynistic editorials designed to drum up as much controversy as possible, Brawler lives up to its name—and then some.
Siren’s long-running feud with Brawler dates back years before I worked here, and legend has it it’s all because of George Clooney.
Here’s the backstory: Not too long after Cynthia founded Siren, George proposed to Amal, and they married later that year in a splashy, star-studded Italian wedding. Their nuptials dominated entertainment news, with every outlet running near-identical versions of the headline A-LIST ACTOR AND NOTORIOUS BACHELOR GEORGE CLOONEY MARRIES LAWYER. Despite an accomplished life and impressive résumé, Amal was relegated to a nameless footnote, her identity immaterial, her only noteworthy accomplishment apparently taming an untamable man. Galled by the slight, Cynthia penned a wedding announcement of her own: TRILINGUAL, INTERNATIONALLY RENOWNED HUMAN RIGHTS LAWYER AND FORMER ADVISER TO UN SECRETARY GENERAL AMAL ALAMUDDIN MARRIES SOME ACTOR.
Overnight, Cynthia was crowned journalism’s latest “It” girl, the feminist voice of the digital media generation, putting her and Siren squarely on the map. But just as her fledgling website was enjoying the warm glow of the spotlight, Brawler wrenched it back by publishing their own snarky hot take: bachelor George Clooney’s obituary. And since the media loves nothing more than a feud, the headline tug-of-war and resulting press frenzy catapulted both sites into a battle of the sexes so intense, we’ve been locked in a death match ever since.
Cynthia slams her laptop shut with more force than necessary. “I hate them, but traffic is traffic. So let’s all thank Brawler for spreading our message,” she says, raising her hand to the window in a one-finger salute.
“Speaking of Brawler, have any of you heard of ‘Sacred Saturdays’?” I ask as everyone starts gathering their things.
“Ugh, yes,” Kara, a petite, freckled blonde and one of our beauty editors, groans from across the table. “My boyfriend thinks it’s hilarious. News flash: You sound like an asshole.”
“I made the mistake of dating a ‘Brawler Bro’ once,” Jordan says as she twists her hair into a bun. “Worst few weeks of my life. He forced me to tag along with him one weekend when he went back to hang at his frat house. He was twenty-seven.” She grabs her laptop and stands. “Never again.”