The Oks Are Not OK

Chapter 1
Before the car comes to a full stop, my friends and I can hear the paparazzi. Everywhere I go, it’s always the same:
“Elena! Over here!”
“Elena, are you wearing an original?”
“Elena, is it true about [insert latest gossip here]?”
I’m only seventeen, and yet, everywhere I go, my fame precedes me. It comes with the territory when your family owns It’s Ok!, one of the fastest-­growing clothing brands. It’s a play on our last name, Ok, which is spelled like okay but sounds like oak. My haters say that as a soon-­to-­be senior in high school, I haven’t done anything to merit this amount of attention, but take it from me: Being in my familyis work.
Since my friends and I are early for our seven o’clock dinner reservation, we aren’t prepared for the photographers in front of Koi when the car pulls up to the entrance. Not that it matters. With high-­profile families like ours, we’re always red-­carpet ready. Faith’s dad is a theater director, Melody’s dad is a record producer, and Brynn’s mom is a celebrity attorney. Willow’s parents are prominent plastic surgeons, but she has aspirations for the silver screen. Aside from being classmates at Brenthaven Prep, we all have hopes to one day follow in the glittery footsteps of our successful parents. And yet as we step out of the car, it’s obvious the paparazzi are here for one of us more than the others.
“Elena, who designed your outfit?”
“Elena, are you excited about the event tonight?”
“Elena, who was that guy you were with last week?”
Not only am I known for my family’s successful business, I get paid to make appearances at parties—I’m the ultimate influencer. Tonight Steve Aoki is DJ-­ing at an event to launch his collaboration with Billie Banks at the Hollywood Palladium. Something to do with sportswear or sporting goods? I don’t know and frankly don’t care, because the events aren’t really about the products, are they? They’re about drawing attention. And I’m good at that.
We barely get through the tunnel o’ paparazzi unscathed. In the restaurant, as the maître d’ swiftly ushers us to our usual table, we overhear the restaurant manager in a slight altercation. The five of us casually glance over.
“Who’s that?” Brynn points to a disheveled guy with unkempt hair. He’s talking to the waitstaff, gesturing wildly with his hands. “He’s giving serial killer energy.”
“He’s looking straight at you, Elena. Do you know him?” Faith has her hands to her mouth like she’s horrified. She takes after her father’s dramatic flair.
“As if I’d know someone dressed in head-­to-­toe vinyl.” I chuff. Pleather, maybe. But his jacket looks like a straight-­up trash bag.
“Ew, I think he’s trying to sit with us.” Melody points as the guy takes two steps in our direction.
“If some rando thinks he can walk over to you like you’re just someregular person, he’ll have to get through the four of us first.” Willow pretends to roll up her sleeves. Ever since I introduced her to the producer who offered her the lead role inParks and Trailers, a new sitcom about teens living in a mobile home community, Willow has professed her undying loyalty to me.
Before the guy gets any closer, the manager swiftly steps in and ushers the unwanted guest out. When the door to the restaurant opens, it’s like someone turns the volume up on the street noise. “Elena! Elena! Elena!” Then the door swings shut, and the sound becomes muted again.
Okay, so I know I’m not, like, supposed to admit this, but I love hearing the sound of my name being called out. Can’t get enough of it. I’mobsessed with it.
“This is how it started with Kim K. My mom told me about it when she was representing her in the lawsuit against her stalker,” Brynn says. “First they show up in public places. Then it’s only a matter of time before they appear in your private home.” She tsks, shaking her head.
Melody gasps. “God, I can’t imagine what you have to endure. You poor thing,” she says with an expression that’s half sincere, half envious. She’s doing voice-­overs for animations in an attempt at becoming a pop star, and with her stardom not yet on the rise, who can blame her? Our friendships with one another boost our already high degree of social cachet, but it’s no secret that I am by far the most established in my own right. Brynn, Willow, and Faith nod at me sympathetically with Melody.
“Aw, you guys. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, touched by their concern even though I’m far from concerned. I have enough sense to know it’s not particularly en vogue to admit my excitement over reaching stalker status. But, wow. Talk about milestones.
“Love you, ladies.” I blow air-­kisses at them.
“Love you more,” they squawk back in unison.
I take it all in. My friends, the fans, the press—­with all eyes on me, it’s not an exaggeration, by any means, when I say I’m the envy ofeveryone.
My phone rings, and when I see who it is, my mood takes a complete nosedive. It’s the one outlier who does not, in any way, want to be me.
“What?” I say in my usual greeting to my brother.
“Just because it’s a club doesn’t mean you have to drink,” Gavin says, bypassing any form of a greeting. “Or at least be discreet about it. And because I know you don’t know the meaning of the word, I’ll tell you. It’s to do something quietly without drawing attention to yourself. Oh, wait, you don’t know what that means either.”
The eye roll comes at once. “Okay,Mom.” Which is kind of a funny thing to say, considering our mom doesn’t get involved in my influencer business. In fact, she hasn’t had an opinion about my life for as long as I can remember.
“Don’t you take anything seriously?” Gavin sighs loudly into the phone. “You’re going to have to grow up one day, and I’m not always going to clean up your messes.”
“Um, no one asked you to, Gavin.”
“If only that were true. I’m only calling because Dad told me to. So don’t kid yourself.”
Ah yes. Thereal reason for Gavin’s call.
Ever since Gavin started attending the University of Southern California last year, Dad has taken him under his wing to be his protégé. Now that Gavin’s been appointed the youngest executive in training at It’s Ok!, it’s been “Gavin, let me show you this” and “Gavin, let me show you that.” Meanwhile, no one asked me if I got home safely from the wedding of a dictator’s daughter in the world’s most secretive and isolated country. Or that time when I came back from a weekend on the yacht of the wealthiest drug cartel in the Southern Hemisphere—­both paid appearances, thank you very much. You’ve heard of the heir and the spare? Well, it’s more like the heir and the . . . who cares? If I weren’t a year shy of becoming an adult myself, I would seriously seek out emancipating from my parents. Except, at the rate at which they’ve been steadily ignoring me, I’m sure I’d be doing them a favor.
“It’s the first week of summer break, Gavin. Don’t you ever take a day off from being . . . you?” As the world’s most unfun person, I imagine even Gavin gets bored of himself.
“Maybe you should try taking a day off from getting yourself in the tabloids by kissing someone else’s boyfriend, or getting into a fight with a politician, or talking to a controversially racist person,” he throws right back at me.
Admittedly, the aforementioned incidents were, on reflection, the results of poor decision-­making under less-­than-­ideal circumstances. But aside from a few bruised egos, the media coverage did more good than harm, boosting my popularity even higher. I suspect that Gavin’s concern over my well-­being, Dad-­mandated or not, is more out of personal interest.
“Are you afraid of being upstaged by your younger sister?” There was a time when Gavin was the only one in the limelight. I’m sure it bothers him now that I’m the one who appears on the front covers while he’s buried deep in the back pages.
He lets out a humorless laugh. “Hardly. Being a public spectacle is a life no one aspires to.”
I don’t know why I bother. Gavin doesn’t get it, and maybe he never will. To him, I’m just a brainless heiress. But however incompetent he thinks I am, it takes a lot to single-­handedly wield more power in my little finger than the AI-­engineered filters in Facetune can.
To prove a point (literally to no one but myself), I glance at the photographers practically pressed against the restaurant windows. The light bulbs go crazy, and I can hear the shutter-click frenzy through the double-­paned windows. When I have their full attention, I look up cluelessly and mouth,What’s that?, timing my finger to touch my lower lip at the same moment. The paparazzi predictably go nuts. The entire restaurant glances at the photographers outside, then back at me. Within seconds, everyone’s eyes are on me. Now that’s power.
So the story behind the catchphrase is from my first interview, when I was fourteen and It’s Ok! was quickly becoming a household name. Gavin was sixteen and an intern at the company. Back then I wanted to be like Gavin. Call it naivete or willful ignorance. So when Gavin started doing interviews, I wanted to too. As soon as my acne cleared up and my overbite was corrected, my parents finally scheduled one for me. And it was a big one. Vogue. It still surprises me how much time my parents put into my makeup and wardrobe but how little they actually prepped me for the interview itself.
Anyway, I don’t even remember saying it, but when I got an advanced copy of the issue, there it was: a full-­page photo of me, doe-­eyed, with my finger to my lip, and the caption read What’s that? A whole hour of interview questions about myself that I answered with perfectly respectable responses, and the one question about the fashion industry—­the onequestion I didn’t know the answer to—­happened to be the one they chose to focus the entire article on. Turns out the question wasn’t even about awhat but a who—­my dad’s number one competitor, Amancio Ortega, the founder of Zara. How in the fourteen-­year-­old hell was I supposed to know who that was?
With all eyes fresh on me, I knew if I wasn’t careful,Elena would be the new Karen. So instead of seeing the press as my enemy, I made them my biggest asset. I figured, since my dad started his own business, so could I. Except instead of selling a product, I’d be selling my image. Three years later the joke’s on them, because I’ve trademarked the catchphrase and made a substantial living off it. Now, not only do I get paid every time someone says “What’s that?” in a movie, TV show, or song lyrics, but people pay me upwards of ten thousand dollars just to appear at clubs, parties, and in social media posts. For a seventeen-­year-­old, I’d say that’s not bad.
“Whatever, El. You’re on your own,” Gavin says, like it should be some kind of a threat.
“I know,” I say without a hint of irony before hanging up. It’s been three years since theVogue article, and I’ve been on my own since then.
At the rate I’m booking my appearances, I could make this a full-­time career before I graduate from high school next year. I wouldn’t even have to go to college. Who needs college or a job at It’s Ok! when I can be my own CEO? I could move out on my own, and the best part is, I’d be making a lucrative career just by being me. Then my life could really start. Anyway, if Gavin thinks he’s doing me any favors, he’s the clueless one.
“Who was that on the phone? Not Liam, I hope.” Brynn makes a face.
I shake my head. “Guys, that was, like, two weeks ago.” They should know I don’t do long-­term. Relationships only hold me back from maximizing my lifestyle brand.
“El, no. You shouldn’t use the termguys anymore. It’s a symbol of exclusion.” As an aspiring lawyer, Brynn often tries to emulate her mom. Like the time she tried to tell us she identified as a woman who didn’t have cellulite, or the time she claimed her English teacher made a verbal agreement to give her an A on a paper she hadn’t even written yet. I know it’s harmless, born out of admiration for her mom, but Brynn should seriously do her research before she opens her mouth.
Maybe it’s because my call with Gavin put me in a mood, but I can’t help myself from correcting Brynn. “Actually, I read thatguys is not considered gendered anymore and that it’s widely accepted as a colloquial alternative referring to a group of people regardless of gender due to the fact that the English language doesn’t have a designated gender-­neutral form for the pluralyou.”
When I finish, it’s silent. Awkwardly so. The four of them stare at me as if I’ve spoken another language. As if I have three heads. As if they don’t know who I am anymore. Their interest is waning, turning to their empty plates and bubble-­infused waters.
“Good evening, ladies. Are we dining omakase tonight?” the waiter asks, cutting into the silence.
In a knee-­jerk reaction, I peer up at the waiter, bat my lash extensions, and put a finger to my lip. “Omakase?What’s that?” I say.
The entire table erupts in laughter, including the waiter. The paparazzi go nuts. And equilibrium is restored. I’m back to being the Elena everyone wants. The one everyone is familiar with. The one that says Elena Ok is okay.
__4
Two hours later we pull up to the Palladium, and the vibe check is hot. I’m about to strut down the step-­and-­repeat with the logo of the brand we’re here to celebrate printed all over the backdrop. Although, by the way the press is shouting my name, you’d think this were a party held in my honor.
“You look amazing, Elena!”
“The Pilates is paying off!”
“Elena, the camera loves you!”
Before I take my first step, my phone rings. I normally wouldn’t pick it up, but it’s my brand manager, Kiki Klineman. And I always pick up her calls.
“El, hon. I saw photos of you at dinner,” she says in her usual no-­nonsense monotone.
“Already?” I don’t know why I’m surprised when she always seems to know the news before it goes to print. It’s why I hired her.
“Don’t worry. You look incredible,” she says flatly. “Nothing urgent now, but call me in the morning. I’ve got a bunch of requests coming in for the summer. Some of them overlap, so we need to prioritize the ones that matter most.”
“Fun! I can’t wait to go through them with you.”
“Me too,” she deadpans. “But tonight enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it!” Kiki is a straight shooter with no emotions. But this is the most she’s ever shown.
The second she hangs up, a champagne flute is handed to me. It’s no surprise I don’t listen to Gavin and I take the glass. Like Kiki said, I’ve earned a night of fun.
“Elena, over here.”
“Turn to the left.”
“Look to your right.”
With literally everyone calling for me at all angles, I do a three-­sixty while holding the glass up, giving them exactly what they want. The sound of the shutter click is music to my ears. As soon as I turn the corner and before I walk through the doors into the club, I swiftly pour out the champagne in a planter. When I get inside, an attendant takes the empty glass from me. Smug satisfaction­ rises in me, knowing I’ve proven Gavin wrong not once but twice. I do make responsible decisions, and I can be discreet . . . when I want to.
It isn’t long before the party really gets going. The music is as intoxicating as the vibe, and my body can’t help but move to the rhythm of it. Everywhere I go, I’m dancing. On the speakers, in the stairway . . . even in the bathroom while I wash my hands, I’m dancing like I don’t have a care in the world. And why should I? Everyone loves me.
“Drink, drink, drink, drink!” a crowd chants at me the second they see me come out of the bathroom doors. So I do. Right after I take the shot, my phone vibrates in my hand. I answer without thinking.
“Ugh, what now?” I shout over the electronic music pulsing in the background.
“Someone’s live streaming in the club.” God, Gavin is so exhausting. Even on a Saturday night, he can’t take a day off. “Drinking out of someone’s belly button? Elena, have youno standards?” Of course Gavin notices the one time I slip up.
“I know who you are,” I say, wiping my mouth from the belly-button shot in question. “You’re Carlton.”
“Jesus, Elena, just how drunk are you? I’mGavin,” he seethes. “Your older, much wiser, and much more responsible brother.”
“No, I mean, you’re Carlton fromFresh Prince,” I say, completely sober. “You know, the really uptight one who doesn’t know how to relax? You’re Asian Carlton!” I cackle at the spot-­on comparison. “Don’t you have anything better to do than to stalk my socials? You need to get your own life, Gavin.”
“I do have a life. Sonya and I were watching a movie when—­”
“Ew, stop flexing your relationship status.” Just because Dad is proud that Gavin’s dating Sonya, he acts like he’s cured cancer or something. According to Dad, Sonya Sinclair is perfect for Gavin. On paper that is. She’s the heiress to Bucky’s BBQ Sauce, which has been a staple in households across the US since her grandfather Bucky Sinclair trademarked and sold their family’s secret recipe in 1960. Hailed as “The most American discovery since America itself,” her family’s business matches the caliber of success of our family’s, and they’re in the food industry, which ensures that our two families will never be in direct competition with each other. Dad thinks Gavin and Sonya’s relationship elevates our status. You know, like a birds-­of-­a-­feather type of thing. News flash: The only person who cares about Gavin’s relationship with Sonya, aside from Dad, is Gavin.
“You can’t make having a girlfriend your entire personality,” I say.
“You can’t make partying your entire personality,” Gavin counters.
“Actually I can, Gavin.” And because he won’t take my word for it, I hold my phone up for Gavin to hear for himself.
“Elena, Elena, Elena!” the crowd chants when I cup my hand around my ear. Just because he—­and my parents, for that matter—­don’t think I’m worth their time, it doesn’t mean others feel that way too. And as long as people keep saying “What’s that?” and are paying me to attend their parties, I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Chapter 2
In the dark club, the strobe lights and mind-­altering music make everything seem like a good idea. Like table dancing, kissing randos, and eating bacon-­wrapped hot dogs from the questionable cart around the corner. And, okay, yes. The occasional drink is also a huge contributing factor. But who cares? I’m living my best life. In the day, however, the harsh lighting reveals the smeared makeup, the sweat stains, and the ugly truth that none of it was a good idea.
My head is pounding, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. I need water. And a maximum-­strength ibuprofen. I try to peel my eyes open, but my lids are glued to my eyeballs. After several attempts, I finally pry them open, only to shield my face with a hand. Ugh, the light. Once my vision adjusts, however, I’m still squinting as I take inventory of my surroundings. That’s not my bathrobe. I don’t own a corded telephone. And this bedspread? I would never choose this print for myself.
I sit up to get a proper look around. Something about it seems familiar. It’s a hotel room in The Beverly Hilton. I’d recognize these curtains anywhere. But whose room is this? When I attempt to get out of bed, my feet feel someone at the other end of it. I cover my mouth to muffle a gasp.Oh my God. This is bad. So bad.
Instinctively I pat myself down. I sigh as soon as I realize my jumpsuit is still on and still intact, with all its buttons firmly clasped. At least nothing happened between me and this mystery guy.
A quick scan of the room tells me we’re the only ones here. Which means my friends must have abandoned me at some point last night. How could they do this to me? How could they stand by and watch me make the series of poor decisions that led me here? I could’ve been hurt, unconscious, abducted, or all of the above. For all they know, this guy could be a serial killer. I mean, a pretty young one with a Rolex and a diamond stud and . . . are those keys to a Ferrari?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I move the sheet to reveal the mystery guy’s face. When I get a good look at him, it all comes screaming back. Oh God. I used his belly button as a shot glass. Guess that explains the hangover.
Wait, that can’t be right. I don’t get hangovers. Despite what Gavin thinks, I don’t drink.Much. Okay, fine. Sometimes I have an occasional drink or two. Maybe three if it’s an all-­day event. But it never gets out of control, and Inever wake up in a place I don’t want to be. At some point I must have stopped checking what was in the drinks I was being handed, because sober me would never have let myself end up in a hotel room with . . . seriously, who is this guy?
I didn’t catch his name, but I’m less frantic knowing he’s a vague acquaintance of an acquaintance and not a total random stranger. Now I feel a regular amount of panic, as one would waking up in the bed of a stranger in a hotel room. Holding my breath, I slide off the bed in an attempt to make my escape. But in my head, I imagined pulling it off way stealthier than I do in real life. My toe gets caught in the sheet, pulling it out from under the guy, jolting him properly awake. Awesome.
“Hmm, what? Oh,” he says, taking note of me. “You’re up.” He smiles at me groggily. “How long have I been sleeping?”
“Since last night?” I legitimately don’t know.
As he props himself up and leans back against the headboard, I get a better look at him. Although we shared an intimate moment last night when my lips touched his belly button, his face is barely recognizable to me. It’s also kind of cute. He’s rocking the nineties-­boy-­band look with his baby-blue eyes and disheveled blond hair. I’d definitely be interested in getting to know him if I were looking for a relationship, which I most certainly am not. When it comes to dating, it’s always the same. As soon as I get close to anyone, it’s only a matter of time before my public lifestyle gets in the way. I’m either going out too much, or I’m not around enough, or there’s never any privacy. But I am so close to having my socialite status bankroll my lifestyle indefinitely, and I am not ready to give that up for anything—­or anyone, for that matter.
“Did you sleep okay—­”
“I have to be somewhere. So I’m going to take off,” I say, pointing to the front door.
“Yeah, sure. I understand.” He scratches the back of his messy bedhead. “Can I call you sometime?”
Call me? Speaking of . . . I’m looking for my phone, tossing pillows around with one hand and putting my shoe on with the other. “Yes!” I shout as soon as I spot my phone in the crevice of the couch cushions. “I mean, I’ll call you.” I go back to the bed to grab my wristlet on the nightstand.
“Cool. Do you want my numb—­”
I put a finger to his lips to shush him. “Look. Don’t take it personally, but . . . relationships aren’t my thing.” I wave and disappear out the door before Belly-Button Shot Guy has a chance to drag out this already-­too-­long conversation.
On my way to the elevator, I order a car service to pick me up at the back exit of the hotel. As an establishment frequented by many celebrities, The Beverly Hilton has a private entrance and exit for those wanting to avoid the paparazzi. It’s a route I’m familiar with but hardly use, since being in the media spotlight is sort of the whole point of being a socialite. Today, though, I’m glad for the escape route.
I take the service elevator down, and before I exit the building, I use the single-­stall employee restroom, which is thankfully empty. Because I have had to pee since I got up, and for some reason, using the restroom in the hotel room of a guy I hardly knew felt undignified. Apparently consuming alcohol from the belly button of a stranger is okay, but using his bathroom is where I draw the line.
While I wash my hands, I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink and gasp. Mascara smudged under my eyes, lipstick smeared across my cheek, and pillow creases on my forehead. This is the part of my life I don’t want the public to know about—­that Ican’t let the public know about.
TheVogue article was hurtful, but it taught me how the media game works. When it comes to the wealthy, the press is always looking for a story, which means I have two choices: I can let the media find their story, or I can supply them with it. It’s no secret I choose the latter­. It’s why I hired brand manager extraordinaire Kiki Klineman­. Every article, every post, and every collaboration has been curated for me to appeal to the masses. And it doesn’t mean I can’t have a relationship with the press that isn’t mutually beneficial. As long as I give the media what they want—­a carefree party it girl—­I’ll get what I want: a lucrative career as a socialite turned influencer. But I have to be smart about it. In order to stay in the public’s good graces, I have to be seen at parties with alcohol, but I can’t be caught hungover the next day. Which is weird when I think about it, since it’s only natural for one to lead to the other. But that’s what it’s like for women. You can’t slip up, not in the public eye.
When I finish using the restroom, a driver in a black SUV with tinted windows is waiting for me in the alley behind the hotel. I hop in, and he takes me to the address I sent earlier. It’s about a thirty-­minute drive home, so I lean back and close my eyes. I’m so tired, I could sleep for days. It’s a good thing it’s summer. With all the events Kiki has lined up for me, I have a feeling there’ll be many more days like this ahead of me.
I ignore my phone buzzing incessantly in my lap. I’m sure it’s Gavin calling to lecture me on my poor life choices. As much as I hate to admit it, on some level, Gavin’s not wrong. Belly-Button Shot Guy turned out to be this cute, harmless golden-­retriever type. But I might not be so lucky next time. Going forward, I promise to make better decisions. For now I’ll ignore Gavin’s calls, since there’s no sense in getting worked up over the PR nightmare, as Gavin will refer to it, when it can be fixed with just one, make that two, words:What’s that?
__4
Thirty minutes later, when the car pulls up to my home, there’s a mass of press surrounding the gated entrance.
“Elena! How was last night?”
“Elena, who is that guy you were with?”
“Elena, Elena, Elena!”
Although I never tire of hearing my name being called over and over, this is getting out of control. “Drive past them,” I instruct the driver, opening up the gate with the remote access on my phone. I usually don’t let drivers beyond the front gate, especially when the press is here. But the paparazzi haven’t been this aggressive before, and today they aren’t shouting the usual words of affirmation.
“Elena, is it true about George Bronstein?”
“What’s going to happen to you now?”
“Are you going to move?”
Move? Why would that even come up? And who the hell is George Bronstein?Great. Is he the guy from the hotel room? As soon as the car comes to a stop, I bolt out of it and pray that someone other than the paid staff is home. It’s usually empty, or maybe it just feels that way when we’re on our separate sides of the house. Although Mom has been more present than usual these past few days. The other day she even asked me if I wanted to do a mother-­daughter trip to Korea this summer, which is highly uncharacteristic of her. We don’t do things like that. But right now I’m banking on her uncharacteristic behavior to be home so she can explain to me what the hell is going on. I’ll even settle for Gavin at this point.
As the gate starts to close, the press gets louder and more specific.
“Elena, what do you have to say about the IRS repossessing your family’s assets? Does it have anything to do with the accusations of embezzlement and money laundering?”
The last reporter gets me to stop in my tracks. My head whips up, and I drop my hand from covering my face.
“Is it true that It’s Ok! is guilty of money mismanagement? Is it going to file for Chapter 11?” another photographer asks.
Chapter 11? In my complete and utter shock, I respond without thinking. “What’s that?” I say, right before the gate shuts, giving the photographers exactly what they want. The roar of camera clicks that follows startles even me. Not since the Vogue article first came out when I was fourteen was I this clueless uttering those two words.
When the gate closes and the press is out of sight, I finally check my phone.
BREAKING NEWS
Updated 1 minute ago
Leading retailer It’s Ok! is under investigation, sparked by complaints from multiple retail management companies of months of unpaid rent. This has caused the immediate closure­ of several of its international branches and a few here in the US. Thousands of It’s Ok! employees are waking up to find themselves out of a job, and amongst them is founder and CEO Dale Ok. The IRS has seized all of Ok’s assets while it conducts a thorough review of the management of the company’s funds. For now, it is unclear whether money mismanagement can be linked to financier George Bronstein’s recent criminal indictment for defrauding investors in a Ponzi scheme, also known as the Madoff 2.0 scandal, or if it points to ethical lapses at the highest levels of leadership. We reached out to a company representative for comment, but we did not get a response.
What (and I can’t stress this enough)the fuck?