He laughs, actually laughs. Like this is the funniest thing he's heard all week.
"You can't do that."
"I absolutely can. And I'm going to enjoy it way more than I probably should."
I open the envelope and spread the contents across his desk with the kind of casual efficiency that would make a card dealer proud.
Photographs. Medical documentation. Timestamped text messages. A signed affidavit from a witness at the New York premiere.
His face goes pale.
"What the fuck is this?"
"Evidence." My voice is cheerful. Almost sunny. "Of assault. Multiple incidents, actually. I'm very thorough when I decide to be."
I point to the first photograph—my wrist, bruised purple and yellow, taken the morning after the New York premiere fight.
"That's from the first time you grabbed me. The night of the premiere. You apologized with flowers, if I remember correctly. White roses. Expensive kind. Very romantic. Really sold the whole 'I'm sorry I left marks on you' angle. Too bad I hate roses.”
My tone is conversational, as if we're discussing the weather.
He starts to speak but I hold up a hand.
"I'm not finished. This one—" I tap the second photo, "—is from three months later. Kitchen argument. You didn't like that I wanted to go Boston for Christmas to spend it with my family who I hadn’t seen in a year. You twisted my arm hard enough to not only leave fingerprints, but a small fracture. That's when I started documenting everything.”
I meet his eyes, and my smile doesn't reach mine.
I remembered what Lydia went through growing up. She spent years documenting Scott's abuse because she knew no one would believe her without proof.
"Nora, you're being ridiculous. Those were all accidents?—"
"Accidents." I nod like I'm considering this. "Right. The kind of accidents that happen repeatedly, always when you're angry, always in places that can be hidden by long sleeves."
The sarcasm in my voice could cut glass. I pull out the next document—a medical report.
"This is from the urgent care visit after you pushed me and I fell down the stairs. You remember that day, right? When we were in Aspen and you were drinking, shouting rounds for all your big exec pals?” I hold the report up. “Because I remember the day vividly. Even have fractures to remind me of that one too.”
His jaw clenches.
"I never?—"
"Yes, you did. And if you even try to you claim it was an accident again, so help me God.”
I lean back, crossing my arms.
"Here's the thing, Wes. This has all been sent to Alex Monroe from Monroe and Parks. I believe you two may even know each other. He’s an excellent entertainment lawyer, you'd like him if he didn't think you were the literal definition of garbage—and he's drafted up a very interesting proposal."
I slide the contract toward him.
"You're going to sign over all rights to the film. You're going to remove yourself from the project entirely. You're going to relinquish any claim to profits, creative control, or involvement of any kind. And you're going to do it quietly, professionally, without making this messy."
"And if I don't?"
I smile. It's not a nice smile.
"Then I go public with all of this. Every photograph. Every medical report. I file a police report. I file a civil suit. And I make sure that every single person in this industry knows exactly what kind of man you are." I lean forward, hands flat on his desk.
"How to Gaslight Your Fiancée in Ten Easy Steps: A Case Study. I think that's a catchy title. Variety would run it. Deadline would love it. Hell, I'd write the exposé myself. I'm very good at writing, if you recall. It's why you wanted my book in the first place."
