Trapped in a $85 Million Hollywood Scandal, a Self-Made Pop Star Endures Brutal Abuse from Her Mogul Stepfather Before Unleashing an Online Paper Trail That Spells Mutual Ruin
Part 1
The cold marble floor bit into Nova Lee’s skin. Each tremor that ran through her body sent fresh waves of agony from her back, where the raw, burning welts stretched across her skin.
She forced herself to stay still, breath held tight in her chest.
The air in the opulent, soundproofed study was thick with the scent of old money, fear, and the metallic tang of her own blood. Tapestries depicting serene pastoral scenes hung on the walls, completely at odds with the violence that had just unfolded.
Nova lay in a heap, her custom-made stage costume, a shimmering silver ensemble, now ripped and stained. It felt heavy, a cruel mockery of the persona she had meticulously built.
Her vision blurred. Through the haze, she could make out the heavy, carved mahogany desk and the towering bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes that had witnessed this humiliation countless times.
Two men stood nearby, grim-faced and silent. They were Milo Kincaid’s enforcers, his shadows. One was a burly ex-bodyguard, a mountain of muscle named Marcus, whose eyes were fixed on the expensive Persian rug, avoiding her gaze.
The other, Gideon Cross, Milo’s personal accountant, fussed nervously with the cuff of his impeccably tailored suit. He carried a sleek, black briefcase as though it contained the secrets of the universe, not just Milo’s illicit financial records.
Gideon finally cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the suffocating quiet.
“She’s barely conscious, Mr. Kincaid,” he murmured, his voice reedy and thin.
Nova heard the click of expensive shoes on the polished wood just outside the study’s double doors.
Milo Kincaid.
Her stepfather.
The man who owned her masters, her image, her very freedom. The man who, moments ago, had delighted in every one of the two hundred lashes, counted out loud by Gideon, a sickening ritual.
Her mind replayed his last words, delivered with a twisted smile as the whip snaked down her back.
“This is what happens when you forget who put you on that stage, Evelyn.”
He always used her real name, Evelyn Ward, when he wanted to remind her of the scared runaway from rural Oregon she once was, before Nova Lee became a platinum-selling pop star.
She shut her eyes, focusing on the pain, using it to anchor herself, to keep the world from spinning out of control. It had been years since she’d felt such raw, physical terror, not since her foster years. She wouldn’t break.
The footsteps grew louder, closer. They paused.
Then, the heavy oak doors, studded with brass, creaked open slowly, revealing a sliver of the brightly lit hallway beyond.
A sliver of the luxurious, sprawling Calabasas manor that was both her gilded cage and her brutal prison.
Nova braced herself, every muscle in her body tensing.
Milo Kincaid stepped into the room, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the floor. He wore a crisp, dark suit, not a single hair out of place. He looked calm, almost serene, as if he had just returned from a pleasant brunch.
He surveyed the scene, his gaze lingering on her crumpled form. His eyes, cold and devoid of any warmth, seemed to assess the damage like a connoisseur judging a piece of art.
Nova held her breath, willing herself to be invisible, to disappear into the intricate patterns of the marble.
A slow smile spread across Milo’s face, a smile that never quite reached his eyes.
He took a deliberate step, then another, the sound of his shoes echoing in the cavernous room. He wasn’t in a hurry. He savored this, the absolute power he held.
He stopped directly over her, his polished Italian leather shoes inches from her head.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed something small and rectangular onto the floor. It landed with a soft clatter, skittering across the marble until it bumped against her outstretched hand.
Her burner phone.
The cheap, black rectangle she’d used for months to communicate with Julian, her estranged half-brother. The phone that contained her only leverage.
Milo’s gaze remained fixed on her, a chilling anticipation in his eyes.
“There you go, Evelyn,” he said, his voice smooth, almost tender. “Make your call.”
Nova’s fingers instinctively curled around the phone. The rough plastic felt like a lifeline in her injured hand.
He kicked something gently with the tip of his shoe. A faint crunching sound followed.
It was her personal laptop, lying shattered into pieces near the far wall. The screen was cracked beyond repair, the keyboard detached.
“It seems you won’t be needing *that* anymore,” Milo purred, his smile widening. “Such a shame.”
He watched her, waiting.
Waiting for her to beg, to plead.
Waiting for her to realize he had anticipated her every move.
Waiting for her to understand that her digital escape plan had just been reduced to a pile of broken plastic and metal.
A single tear traced a path through the grime and blood on Nova’s cheek. It tasted of salt and iron.
She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the urge to sob, fighting the despair that threatened to engulf her.
“Now, are you ready to be a good girl?” Milo asked, his voice hardening, losing its mock tenderness. “Are you ready to sign?”
He pulled out a slim, silver pen from his jacket pocket. Its gleam was almost blinding.
Behind him, Gideon Cross stepped forward, placing a thick stack of documents onto the mahogany desk. The top sheet bore a familiar logo: Kincaid Entertainment Group.
Nova knew what they were. Transfer documents. The final relinquishing of her $85 million master rights.
Milo tapped the pen against his palm, a rhythmic, irritating sound.
He knelt down, bringing his face close to hers. His breath, smelling faintly of expensive coffee, brushed against her ear.
“Because if you’re not,” he whispered, his voice dangerously low, “I have some interesting footage to release to the press. Tapes of you, darling, suffering from a rather… *extreme* psychotic break at a rehab clinic in Arizona.”
He leaned back, watching for her reaction.
“Ten minutes, Evelyn,” he said, rising to his feet again. “That’s all the time you have to decide.”
Nova felt a fresh wave of nausea, her stomach clenching. She knew about those tapes. Doctored footage from the one time she’d succumbed to exhaustion and checked herself into a wellness retreat, not rehab. He’d twisted everything, as always.
She clutched the broken burner phone tighter, her knuckles white.
The heavy double doors, still ajar, suddenly swung fully open with a soft, ominous thud.
Framed in the doorway stood another figure. Someone new.
Not Marcus, not Gideon.
This man was taller, leaner, dressed in the uniform of a Calabasas Sheriff’s Deputy. His hand rested on the holstered gun at his hip.
His eyes scanned the room, settling on Nova, then on Milo, and then back to Nova again.
He took a slow, deliberate step into the room, his gaze unwavering. His presence was utterly unexpected, a jarring intrusion into Milo’s controlled theatre of cruelty.
“Mr. Kincaid?” the deputy asked, his voice calm, professional, but carrying an undeniable weight of authority. “We have reports of a disturbance.”
Part 2
Milo turned, irritation flashing. “Domestic issue, Officer. Nothing to see.”
The deputy’s eyes scanned Nova, then Milo.
He gave a curt nod and exited.
The doors clicked shut.
Nova forced herself up.
“I’ll sign,” she rasped.
“But I need my lawyer, on *your* landline.”
Milo’s smile was thin.
“Be quick, Evelyn.”
Her fingers fumbled the heavy receiver.
She dialed.
Not a lawyer’s number.
A precise, archaic forum registry code.
The phone whirred, then a burst of rapid digital static.
A silent signal, sent.
Julian’s data-scraping script was now active.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours