Page 32 of Corrupted Tyrant

She melts into me, her arms winding around my waist and her head coming to rest on my chest. “And you,” she whispers, “are the steady ground beneath my feet. The shelter in the storm.”

I press my lips to her temple, breathing her in. She used a different shampoo this morning—roses and sunshine.

“I’ve got you,” I promise, the words a solemn vow. “No matter what comes, I’ve got you.”

We stand like that for a long moment, the world narrowing to the space between our heartbeats. As I hold her close, surrounded by the whimsical chaos of Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Art Museum, I feel a flicker of hope take root in my chest.

I’m holding Candy Wood in public, and she’s holding nothing back. Her eyes are full of affection. She just called me her shelter in the storm.

Something breaks loose in my chest and rearranges itself in a new configuration. I’ve been protecting my heart, burying my true feelings, keeping part of myself hidden.

When the time is right, I’m going to take a play out of Candy’s book. I’m going to be bold, fearless, courageous, and let her know what I become more certain of every day.

I love this woman.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Candy

My heart is jackhammering in my chest despite the picturesque setting. Here I am on the back porch of an Airbnb in the middle of nowhere, Texas, the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting a warm glow on the quaint outdoor deck. There’s a heavenly scent drifting to me when the breeze shifts, yet my palms are slick with sweat.

Courage squeezes my hand, his touch grounding me. “You’ve got this, rock star.” His blue eyes are fierce with conviction. “I’m right here with you.”

I nod, drawing strength from his unwavering support. We’ve grown so close these past few weeks, our bond deepening with every mile, every kiss, every whispered confession in the dark. He’s become my safe harbor, and yes, my anchor in the storm.

I spot Eleanor across the deck, deep in conversation with the interviewer, a statuesque brunette with kind eyes and a gentle smile. As if sensing my gaze, Eleanor looks up, giving me a brisk nod of encouragement.

“Candy, hello.” The interviewer approaches, extending a perfectly manicured hand. “I’m Elizabeth Carlisle, but please, call me Liz. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I manage, shaking her hand and hoping she doesn’t notice the tremor in my fingers. “Thank you for giving me this platform, for helping me tell my story.”

“Of course.” Her expression softens with understanding. “What you’re doing today… it’s incredibly brave. I want you to know this is a safe space. You’re in control here.”

I swallow hard, blinking back the sudden sting of tears. Control. I’ve had so little of it in my life, my choices and my voice stripped away by those who sought to use me for their own gain.

But not anymore. Today, I take it back. Today, I speak my truth.

Liz leads me to a sturdy willow chair, the seat covered with a thick floral pad. The cameras and microphones are already set up and waiting. Courage gives my hand one last squeeze before stepping back, a silent promise in his eyes—I’ve got you.

“Alright, Candy.” Liz settles into the chair across from me. “Whenever you’re ready. Tell your story in the way you want. I’ll chime in with questions at some point.”

I take a deep breath, the words I’ve kept locked away for so long rising in my throat. And then, I speak.

I tell them everything. The grooming, the manipulation, the insidious erosion of my sense of self. Raskins, Jones, Villanueva—I name the men who preyed on my innocence, who made me feel like an object to be used and discarded. I don’t gloss over Maxwell Blackwell, the CEO. He wasn’t a perpetrator, but he had to know at least the broad strokes of what went on, and he never intervened as long as the money kept flowing in.

I talk about the groping, the lewd comments, the constant fear that one wrong move would end my career, plunging my family into poverty since my income supported us all. In detail, I describe how they tore me down, made me question my own worth until I hardly recognized the girl in the mirror.

The words pour out in a torrent, years of pent-up pain and anger and shame spilling onto the sunlit deck. Liz listens intently, her eyes shining with empathy and a righteous fury that mirrors my own.

“Candy,” she says softly, during a lull in my story, “I want to make something very clear. What happened to you… it was abuse. Full stop. The fact that they didn’t physically force you into intercourse doesn’t negate the harm they inflicted, the power they wielded over you.”

I stare at her, my breath catching in my throat. It’s a truth I’ve always known, deep down, but hearing it spoken aloud, validated by another… it cracks something open inside me, a fissure in the dam I’ve built around my heart.

“I…” My voice wobbles, tears blurring my vision. “I always told myself it could’ve been worse. That at least I wasn’t…” I can’t say the word, can’t give shape to the horror that haunts so many of my fellow survivors.

I’ve spent half my lifetime minimizing what happened to me and now another human being is telling me my pain is real. It matters. My heartbreak wasn’t exaggerated.

“Honey.” Liz reaches out, clasping my hand in hers. “Don’t you see? They didn’t have to go that far to break you. The abuse started the moment they looked at a child and saw something to exploit, to manipulate, for their own gain and gratification.”

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