Chapter 8 No.8

The Hotel Ballroom was packed. The air was hot, smelling of stale coffee and electricity. Flashbulbs went off in a blinding staccato rhythm as Hester stepped onto the podium.

Haywood stood beside her, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder. To the audience, it looked like support. To Hester, it felt like a shackle.

She looked out at the sea of reporters. They were hungry. They wanted the breakdown. They wanted the tears.

Hester unfolded the script Haywood had given her. She looked at the first line: I am ashamed of my actions.

She looked up. She made eye contact with the camera directly in front of her.

"I admit," she began, her voice clear and steady, "that my behavior at Fashion Week was... calculated."

Murmurs rippled through the room.

"Are you on drugs?" a reporter shouted from the back.

"Are you jealous of Brandy?" another yelled.

Hester paused. She didn't look at Haywood. "It was calculated... to show that talent cannot be hidden by a mask. I admit to creating hype. I admit to refusing to be invisible."

Haywood's grip on her shoulder tightened painfully. This wasn't the script. But it was ambiguous enough. She hadn't denied the "instability" outright; she had just reframed it as "artistic temperament." He couldn't stop her now without causing a scene.

"I am stepping back," Hester continued, "to evaluate my partnerships. Thank you."

She stepped down from the podium before the questions could escalate. The stock for Mckee Management dipped slightly on the tickers, but it didn't crash. Not yet.

As she walked toward the exit, a janitor was sweeping the floor near the side door. He pushed his broom right over her shoes, leaving a streak of dust on her black heels.

"Move it, crazy lady," the janitor sneered. "You're blocking the trash can."

Hester stopped. She recognized the look in his eyes. He had been paid. Brandy's assistant had likely slipped him fifty bucks to humiliate her on the livestream.

The cameras were still rolling, swiveling to catch her reaction. They expected her to cry. Or scream.

Hester didn't even look at the janitor. She gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod to a large man in a dark suit standing by the door. It wasn't hotel security. It was Rhodes private security, disguised as staff.

The man moved instantly, stepping in front of the janitor. "Check your employment contract," the guard said, his voice a low rumble. "Clause 4. Disrespect to talent or guests is grounds for immediate termination by the venue client. You're fired."

The guard grabbed the janitor by the elbow. The janitor's smirk vanished as he was forcibly marched out the door.

The livestream chat went wild. She's bossy. She's a diva.

Haywood pulled her into the hallway, his face red. "That was close! You went off script, but... we can spin it. The 'Diva' angle works too. Now, the final step."

He checked his watch. "Visit Brandy in the hospital. She's checked in for 'stress'. Show the world you support her recovery. Kiss the ring, Hester."

Hester smiled. It was the smile of a shark sensing blood in the water.

"I'd love to," she said.

She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Josie.

Green light.