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
The sting of the lash still burned, a phantom fire across my back, but I forced a shuddering breath. Milo Kincaid stood over the shattered remains of my laptop, the screen a spiderweb of cracks, a cruel smile tightening the lines around his eyes.
“Ten minutes, Evelyn,” he said, using my birth name, the one he knew I hated. “Sign it over. All $85 million. Or the tapes go live.”
He gestured to Gideon Cross, his corrupt accountant, who held a flimsy flash drive like it was a scepter. Doctored footage, I knew, showing me in some manufactured drug-induced rage.
My body screamed for rest, for escape, but my mind was already racing. Physical resistance? Impossible. Bribing Gideon? He’d just sell me out again.
There was only one path.
I pushed myself up, wincing as my ribs protested. My hands trembled, but I kept my gaze low, a performance of brokenness.
“I’ll sign,” I rasped, my voice barely a whisper. “But I need to call my attorney first. Confirm the terms.”
Milo’s smile widened, a predator seeing its prey finally give up. He thought he’d broken me. He thought destroying my burner phone had severed my last link to the outside world.
“The landline in the study,” I clarified, my eyes flickering towards the heavy mahogany desk. “A formality.”
He studied me, then nodded, satisfied. He believed he held all the cards.
“Fine,” he grunted, motioning to two of his security detail. “But they stay with you. No funny business.”
The men flanked me as I shuffled towards the antique desk, its polished surface reflecting the faint light from the chandeliers. The old-fashioned rotary phone sat heavy in its cradle, a relic.
My fingers, still aching, carefully lifted the receiver. The plastic felt cold against my palm. I could feel the guards’ eyes on me, Milo’s heavy presence just a few feet away.
Instead of dialing my lawyer’s private line, I punched in a sequence of numbers from memory, a forgotten string from years ago. It was an old forum registry code, dormant for over a decade, designed by my brother Julian. A digital ghost in the machine.
A faint, high-pitched tone sounded through the receiver, a series of rapid clicks that only a computer would recognize. Milo wouldn’t know what it meant. He just heard dial tone, then a connection.
“Hello?” I said into the phone, pitching my voice to sound tired and defeated. “Yes, I need to speak to Mr. Hayes. It’s urgent.”
The automated voice on the other end responded with a generic message, something about business hours, but it didn’t matter. The signal had been sent. Julian’s remote data-scraping script, dormant for months, was now alive. It was gathering everything.
I listened for another moment, pretending to wait for a transfer, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my bruised ribs. The script was running. The fuse was lit.
“He’s not available,” I mumbled, hanging up the phone with a sigh that was almost genuine. “I’ll try again later.”
Milo nodded, oblivious. He just saw surrender. He saw his victory. He hadn’t seen the digital trap I’d just sprung.
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