The collapsing press line was a tangled mess of cables, microphones, and shouting voices. Donald’s frantic retreat created a vacuum, quickly filled by the lingering questions of the journalists. I, however, turned away from the spectacle, walking past the security barriers and into the venue’s backstage area.
The transition was jarring. From the blinding lights and roaring crowd, I stepped into a surprisingly quiet, dimly lit hallway. The air here smelled of dust, old stage curtains, and stale coffee. Stagehands in black moved quietly, carrying equipment, their faces showing mild curiosity at the distant commotion, but mostly focused on their tasks.
I could still hear the faint shouts from the red carpet, but they were muffled, distant. I looked back for a moment. Through a set of propped-open service doors, I caught a glimpse of Donald. He was being half-dragged, half-stumbled by his legal team towards a nondescript service exit.
His perfectly styled hair was disheveled. His face was blotchy, his mouth still moving, muttering a frantic stream of excuses to his remaining staff members. “It’s all a setup… a smear campaign… they’re trying to ruin me!” he hissed, his voice high-pitched and desperate.
The junior executive he’d been talking to earlier now held a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock and dismay. Other staff members avoided his gaze, their backs stiff. No one offered comfort or support. The empire he’d built on my back was crumbling, and his loyal subjects were abandoning ship.
Even in his disarray, photojournalists, having anticipated his escape route, were there. Flashbulbs popped, capturing his hasty, embarrassing retreat. The raw footage would be replayed for days, a testament to his downfall. It was a humiliating end to a night that was supposed to be his triumph.
I felt Marcus come up beside me, his presence a solid anchor in the surreal environment.
“He’s out,” Marcus stated, his voice calm. “Ran straight for the loading dock.”
“Good,” I responded, my gaze fixed on the disappearing figure of my stepfather. There was no joy, no triumph in watching his humiliation, just a profound sense of exhaustion and a quiet determination to see this through. This was just the beginning of the legal process, not the end.
A venue security guard, looking bewildered, approached us. “Ms. DeWitt? Mr. Reynolds? The LAPD white-collar crime unit is requesting to see you in the venue office. They’re here.”
I nodded, a tremor running through me despite my outward calm. The legal phase was moving forward, exactly as Marcus had predicted. The public exposure was a necessary first step, but the real justice would come through the courts.
“Let’s go, then,” I said to Marcus, pushing away from the glimpse of Donald’s shame. “Time to give them everything.”
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