"Natalie!" Her voice could've cut glass. "Have you seen the news?"
"What news?" I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Richard wasn't there—just water and folic acid on the nightstand, a note underneath. "Morning meeting, back before nine, don't take pills on an empty stomach."
"Your photos—no, not yours, photoshopped. Jesus, those pictures are just..." Emma was incoherent. "Wait, I'm sending them."
My phone buzzed. I opened it. My whole body went rigid.
Explicit, obscene pornographic images. The woman's face had been crudely but viciously photoshopped onto mine, the body lifted from god-knows-what porn site. Backgrounds doctored to look seedy, compromising. The quality was garbage, the splicing obvious—anyone with half a brain could tell they were fake.
But the internet never cared about the truth. Only traffic and shock value.
The comments were endless filth—speculation, glee, piling on, countless shares from people loving the spectacle. I felt all my blood rushing to my head, my face burning while my limbs went cold. Rage, nausea, and this massive, humiliating sense of being stripped naked in public—it nearly drowned me.
"Natalie? Natalie, you there?" Emma's voice through the phone. "Don't panic, I already contacted lawyers. We're releasing a statement immediately. Those photos are obviously fake. The earlobe shape's wrong. You have that little mole on your ear, the photos don't. That's proof enough—"
"Emma," my voice shook but somehow stayed level, "contact my lawyers for a public statement and cease-and-desist letters. Sue the posters and platforms for defamation and violation of likeness rights. Pursue them to the end. Get the best tech team, issue a detailed forgery analysis report. And contact the women's rights organizations I work with. Request their support."
"Already on it, babe, already rolling!" Emma talked fast. "We're going to sue those bastards into bankruptcy!"
I hung up, slumped on the couch, chest heaving. My lower abdomen cramped painfully. I forced myself to breathe deeply, calm down. For the baby. I couldn't fall apart.
But as I steeled myself to coordinate details with the lawyers, the viral links started turning into "404 Not Found" one by one. My name and those keywords vanished from trending lists. Refresh the page—the flood of discussion threads and shared images turned into walls of "This content has been deleted." Several major social platforms and news sites simultaneously released unusually harsh official statements condemning "malicious rumor-mongering and photoshopped images," announcing permanent bans on related accounts and reserving the right to pursue legal action.
The whole thing—from explosion to erasure—took under an hour.
Only Richard could pull that off.
But I felt no relief. I didn't understand who would do this to me.
Olivia...
Was it her?
If not her, would whoever did this just let it go? I didn't know.
A week later,Emma and I arranged to meet at a top-tier studio known for privacy and security to test record demos of the new songs. Before leaving, the head of security triple-checked routes and contingency plans. I sat in the back of the extended sedan, security vehicles front and back. The sun was bright, soft music played in the car. I tried to relax.
We turned onto a street lined with high-end office buildings. Suddenly, urgent voices crackled through the lead car's radio. "Alert! Vehicle approaching fast on the right!"
Before I could react, a black SUV swerved out of nowhere from the right lane, slamming hard in front of our lead car!Screeching brakes—our car lurched to a stop. My body flew forward from the momentum, snapped back by the seatbelt, head spinning from the impact.
"Protect Mrs. Winston!" The security chief's voice roared through the radio.
But the real attack came next second! My left door was yanked open from outside! Someone in a black hoodie, mask, and cap appeared, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out! My head hit the doorframe—everything went dark. My lower abdomen twisted with pain.
"Let her go!" Carson lunged from the passenger seat, grabbed the attacker's wrist—the one holding a knife. Another guard rushed from the rear vehicle.
Chaos erupted outside. The attacker had me in a death grip, half my body already dragged out. I could smell his heavy sweat. His strength was terrifying, eyes shooting out above the mask—crazy and cold. The blade flashed in the struggle, sliced through my sleeve, the cold steel grazing my forearm, leaving a burning sting.
"Help!" I finally found my voice, kicked and clawed desperately. My nails seemed to tear his hand, but he didn't even flinch—just pulled harder.
Just as I felt myself being completely dragged out, his grip suddenly loosened. I crashed to the ground—knees and elbows hitting pavement simultaneously. Pain flooded my body. I shook all over, teeth chattering, tears streaming uncontrollably. The cramping in my abdomen came in waves, each worse than the last, filling me with terror.
"Call an ambulance! Notify Mr. Winston! Now!" Carson shouted into the radio, then carefully steadied me. "Ma'am, breathe. Look at my eyes, breathe... It's over, we're safe, it's over..."
Everything started swaying, blurring. Carson's anxious face and the street background twisted into a grotesque mess of colors. Darkness rushed in from all sides like a tide, swallowing my last thread of consciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
