Page 133 of When Hearts Awaken

A few people applaud, but I hold up my hand. “I wish I could tell you I’m doing this because of sheer bravery, but that isn’t the case. I’m being blackmailed by one of the assailants.”

Horrified whispers echo in the room and I force myself to continue, “This individual has photos and possibly videos of me and is threatening to disclose what they did to me if I don’t comply with their wishes, which is to stop investigating what happened to me.”

Leaning forward, I stare into the cameras aimed at my face. “I’m here to givethat bastarda message. I’m not backing down. I’m not giving up. And Iknowwho you are. I am coming for you.”

My heart sprints circles inside me, a tornado of conflicting emotions gathering strength. “And to all of you in this room, I plead that you will be an ally to the women in my position. If you receive photos or videos of me from this criminal, I implore you not to post them, to respect my privacy, and not to play into his hands. I also want to remind you I was underage when this happened, and all images are illegal, considered as child pornography, and should never see the light of day. Thank you all for being here today.”

My legs tremble as I walk off the stage toward the staff hallway. I hear the reporters hurling questions at my back, and I quicken my steps, fleeing the chaos behind me. Turning back to look at the room before I step inside the hallway, I see Charles and my siblings joining forces with the security team, blocking the reporters and photographers from following me.

Five minutes later, I make my way down to the side exit of the hotel where a car should be waiting for me to take me back to Charles’s place. We figured it’d be best if I headed over there first before the word got out and more press surrounded the building. I’m lightheaded and dizzy, a jitteriness filling my veins like I’m having a sugar crash. A wave of relief at everything being out there, on my terms, unmoors me, followed by the crushing grief and blistering anger.

Curiously, one emotion—the one that has haunted me the most in the past eight years—is missing.

Fear.

I’ve taken the power away from the bastard.

He can’t hurt me anymore.

Exhilaration joins the turmoil and I want to cry, to laugh, to sink to my knees and to tell that little girl who believed in princes and true love that she’ll be okay.

Because she’s a survivor.

I push open the door, expecting to see the black town car at the curb, but am met with a swarm of reporters instead. They must’ve found out from their colleagues inside the room. Glancing around, I find the town car parked across the street next to more press vans, no doubt because my side of the curb is blocked by traffic cones. There’s no way I can make it over there without getting mauled.

“Ms. Peyton-Anderson, do you remember what the attacker looked like?”

“Ms. Peyton-Anderson, aren’t you afraid of retaliation?”

“How many men were there? Are they old, young? Are they from your ballet company?”

“Taylor, look over here! Taylor!”

Blinding white lights flash in my face, the crowd converging toward me as I hold out my hands.

“Back up!” I yell, but they don’t listen. They all just want the story, want an exclusive—men and women alike, waving their phones and notepads in the air, their cameras and microphones thrusted at my face.

Panic jolts my insides, my breathing coming in quick pants.

Then I hear the deafening roar of a motorcycle smashing past traffic cones before skidding to a stop by the curb. Snapping my eyes up, I see a man wearing all black on the bike. He takes off his helmet and shakes out his dirty blond hair, his familiar sky-blue eyes pinned on me.

Liam Vaughn. Charles’s brother.

He twists the throttle again, the engine revving loudly. “Taylor, hop on!”

Quickly, I scramble toward him, throw myself onto his bike, don the helmet he hands me, and we speed away, leaving the crowd of reporters in the dust.

Chapter 55

I throw open thedoor to my penthouse apartment and rush inside. The fuckers ambushed us at the press conference. Instead of disbanding in an orderly fashion, they wanted more from a woman who had given up too much of herself already.

The soulless leeches.

Then, a hotel staff member rushed up and told us they had Taylor surrounded by the side entrance so she couldn’t even get into the car. My heart nearly stopped when the staff told me she hopped onto a motorcycle of a random man before taking off. She hasn’t returned my calls or texts—her phone must still be on silent.

Please tell me she’s safe.

My feet come to an abrupt stop when I dart into the living room, finding Taylor sitting there with no one other than my brother.

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