The apartment felt like a command center. Chloe had three laptops open, her eyes bloodshot but gleaming with a predatory light. Sarah was on the phone with a private investigator she'd met during her days working high-end security, her voice low and demanding.
"Found it," Chloe whispered, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. She turned her laptop around. "Cynthia isn't just a 'mean girl.' She's a liability. It turns out her father isn't just a businessman; he's the silent partner in the very paparazzi agency that 'found' those photos of you in Cabo."
Maya leaned in, her eyes widening. "She staged the leak? With her own father's company?"
"It's worse," Chloe said, tapping a key to bring up a series of internal emails. "Her label knew. They didn't just allow it; they funded it to create a 'rivalry' narrative for the music video release. They were going to use your trauma to sell Cynthia's next single. It's a direct violation of the NDAs they signed when Paradox & Prose took over the production."
Sarah slammed her phone down. "And I just got confirmation from the theater department's old security logs. The 'protestors' who threw paint at you seven years ago? Two of them are currently on Cynthia's personal security payroll. This wasn't a coincidence, Maya. She's been stalking your ghost for years, waiting for you to get famous enough to destroy."
The room went cold. This wasn't just a tabloid spat; it was a long-term obsession.
The "Dock Burning"
Maya stood up. The fear that had paralyzed her for an hour was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. She looked at Julian, who was already reaching for his coat.
"No," Maya said firmly. "Julian, stay here. If you show up, it looks like a boyfriend defending his girl. I need this to be a CEO defending her empire."
She turned to Chloe. "Leaked the emails to our legal team and the Times. Now. Sarah, I want those security payrolls verified and sent to the police for harassment charges."
"What about you?" Julian asked, looking at her with a mix of concern and awe.
"I'm going to finish the script," Maya said.
The Live Broadcast
Instead of a polished documentary, Maya chose the rawest medium possible. She went live on the Paradox & Prose official channel. She sat in front of a plain white wall. No lace. No hood. Just Maya.
"Seven years ago, I was chased off a stage with red paint," she told the three million people watching. "I was told I didn't deserve a voice because of my father's sins. I believed them. I built a mask to hide because I thought the world was a place that only wanted to hurt me."
She took a deep breath, her eyes locking onto the camera lens—and, she knew, onto Cynthia's screen.
"But today, I found out that the paint wasn't just a protest. It was a payday. Cynthia Vane and her label have spent years trying to keep me in that mask. They leaked my private life to humiliate me. But here's the thing about writers..."
She leaned forward, a ghost of a smirk appearing.
"We keep the receipts. As of five minutes ago, a federal lawsuit has been filed against Vane Media for corporate espionage, harassment, and breach of contract. And as for my father? His sins are his own. My words belong to me."
She reached out and picked up the red velvet dress from the theater video—the one still stained with paint—and dropped it into a metal trash can beside her. She lit a match and tossed it in.
"The dock is burning," she whispered. "And I'm not the one who's going to drown."