Page 17 of Corrupted Tyrant

“Ms. Wood?” Her voice is cool, crisp. “I’m Eleanor Baker, one of the producers of Broken Starlets. Might I have a word?”

I feel Courage tense behind me, his hand tightening on my hip. But I give his hand a reassuring pat as I give the woman a polite but guarded smile.

“Ms. Baker, hello. I’m afraid I’m not doing any interviews at the moment.”

“Oh, this isn’t an interview.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Think of it more as… a conversation. An opportunity.”

I frown. Something about her tone sets my teeth on edge. “An opportunity for what, exactly?”

“To tell your story.” Her eyes bore into mine, intense and unwavering. “To join your voice with the brave women who have already come forward, to help us expose the truth about what really happened at KEN.”

A chill runs down my spine, my stomach twisting with a sickening combination of dread and distrust. Part of me wants to run, to hide, to bury my head in the sand and pretend that none of it ever happened.

But another part of me, a stronger part… wants to fight. Wants to stand up and speak out, to use my platform and my privilege to make a difference.

To finally, finally let the truth set me free.

I take a deep breath as I stand straighter. “I appreciate the offer, Ms. Baker. But I’m not sure I’m ready to…”

“There may not be a later.” She cuts me off, her voice sharp. “Time is of the essence, Candy. Every day that passes, your abusers grow more insulated, more untouchable, more bold. Hashtag Me Too is ancient history. A few people were prosecuted, but the system hasn’t changed. We need your voice. We need your strength.”

I hesitate, torn. But before I can respond, Courage steps forward, his presence solid and reassuring at my back.

“What my client means,” his voice is low and firm, “is that she needs time to consider your request. This isn’t a decision to be made lightly.”

Eleanor Baker’s eyes narrow, her lips thinning. But she nods, reaching into her bag to pull out a sleek black business card. “Of course. I understand.” She hands me the card, her fingers cool and dry against mine. “But Candy… don’t wait too long. The world needs to hear your truth. This isn’t just for Samantha Adair, Veronica Trudeau, and the others. It’s for you. You deserve to be free of this burden, once and for all.”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat and Courage’s warmth at my back.

“Hey.” He turns me gently to face him, his eyes searching mine. “You okay?”

Letting out a shaky breath, I lean into him. “I… I don’t know. I thought I was ready, but now… especially after that text…”

“Shh, it’s okay.” He pulls me into his arms, rocking me gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. This is your story, your choice. No one else gets to make the decision for you.”

That’s just the problem. I don’t know what to decide. All I know is that this situation is terrifying whether I shut up and say nothing, or if I spill it all in front of the camera.

Chapter Twelve

Candy

I was quiet during the ride from the venue to our hotel and didn’t worry about explaining myself because Courage reads me so well. He probably knows my thoughts have circled back to Baker’s offer.

We part ways in the hall with Courage’s soft, “Remember, I’m right next door if you need me.” He spears me with his penetrating gaze and reaches out to touch my shoulder, then thinks better of it and yanks his hand back.

I’m half dazed as I shower and brush my teeth. Although I optimistically bring my guitar to bed, thinking I can work on the bridge of the ballad I’m composing, the instrument lies accusingly on the spread as I pointedly refuse to pick it up.

After ten minutes of having a staring contest with an inanimate object—in which the inanimate object is winning—I give up, turn off the light, and try to sleep.

Although I don’t manage to fall asleep, I’m relaxing in increments when my phone pings. I gasp as every muscle in my body tightens.

The phone is on the nightstand, still illuminated from the call. It’s well after midnight. I’m not sure who would call me at this time of night. Certainly not my parents; I’ve been no-contact with them for two years.

I have to give credit to the therapist Maury coaxed me into seeing. She may not have cured my penchant for getting into trouble, but she helped me realize my parents were toxic narcissists who used me as a cash cow my entire childhood.

The call could only be Maury, Courage, or whoever is threatening me. Although I could sit here and conduct an inner debate until the cows come home, I put myself out of my misery and simply pick up the phone—my heart pounds as I read the words on the screen.

I know what really happened at KEN. Keep your mouth shut, or everyone will know what a dirty little slut you were. Do you think your crotch shot almost sank your career? That was a drop. What I can tell the press is more like an ocean. Sam Raskins, KEN, and the crew send their regards.

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