Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Natalie
Ever since Richard and I cleared the air, we'd stumbled into something like a belated honeymoon phase.
Every morning, first thing I did was look for his face.
Sometimes he was already dressed, fastening his cufflinks.
Other times, he was still asleep, lashes down, brow slightly furrowed like he was wrestling with some hostile takeover even in his dreams. I'd stare at him forever—long enough that he'd open his eyes and say in that rough just-awake voice, "Seen enough? "
"No," I told him honestly.
"Really?" He'd smile, pull me into his arms, and rest his chin on top of my head. "Then look a little longer."
Richard even started buying me clothes. Clothes I'd actually like.
A bright yellow sundress with daisies embroidered at the neckline.
Sequined ballet flats so soft they folded in half.
And this hoodie with obnoxious rainbow stripes—I stood in front of the mirror for five minutes wearing it, and if you ignored my belly, I could've passed for a sixteen-year-old.
Richard leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me spin. His expression was complicated—like someone trying to convince himself to accept something that needed time to digest.
"You're sure you want to wear that out?" he asked.
"Positive."
"To the studio?"
"Yes."
"Security will follow."
"I know."
"Photographers might take pictures."
"Let them."
He was quiet for two seconds. Then he walked over, took the rainbow hoodie from my hands, and checked the label. "This brand's quality is mediocre. I'll have someone custom-make a few, better fabric."
I smiled. "Richard, right now you're just supposed to say it looks good."
He looked at me. Something moved in those gray-blue eyes. Then he nodded, completely serious. "It looks good."
I spun in front of him again, satisfied. "Then I'm wearing this out."
"Okay." Richard bent down and kissed the corner of my mouth.
God. He kissed the corner of my mouth. It was almost innocent. I couldn't help but kiss him back, deepening it. Richard's suit pants pressed against me. I could feel his body responding, ready, but—
"Sweetheart, time won't wait. I've got to go."
Richard's breathing got heavier. "Can't you skip it?"
Never thought I'd hear those words from this workaholic. I kissed him again. "Of course not, Richard. Work comes first. You should know that."
As I walked out, I glanced back. He was still standing there watching me, hands in his pockets, shoulder against the doorframe. Sunlight streamed through the window, outlining him in gold.
In that moment, I thought: God, I'm a lucky woman. Even if it took a ridiculously long time to figure that out.
The comeback went smoother than I'd expected.
Richard didn't directly interfere with my music work—he'd promised me that much: creative freedom, no meddling, no silent bankroller—but his personality wouldn't let him just sit on the sidelines either.
On the shareholder list of my new label, there was an anonymous investor holding stock through three layers of offshore companies.
I knew it was him. He knew I knew. But we never mentioned it.
This felt weirdly novel for Richard and me. Novel enough that I couldn't help kissing him. Which I did.
The new songs were coming along steadily. Emma flew in from Vegas every week to join me in the studio, more excited than I was. "Baby, this track is going to blow up."
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time!" She yelled through the glass. "Natalie, you're a genius. I'm not flattering you, I'm stating facts."
I smiled, hand on my belly. The little one was kicking—probably annoyed by the drum track in my headphones. I turned down the volume, switched to something slower.
Days passed like that. Recording, eating, walking, arguing with Richard—okay, not arguing.
"Constructive exchanges of opinion." Like when he thought I should rest more, I thought he should butt out less.
Like when he thought security should follow me to the bathroom door, I thought he should see a therapist.
"Richard, I don't need someone standing guard while I pee."
"That's in public. The studio bathroom is at the end of the hall, right next to the fire exit—"
"So what? Someone's going to burst through the fire door and kidnap me? Please, it's broad daylight. What kidnapper would be dumb enough to grab me now?"
But I had to admit, after that conversation, I started feeling uneasy.
I began noticing things.
Tucked in the corners of financial news: reports of Carter family setbacks—"Carter Media terminates European partnership," "Olivia Carter exits charity foundation board," "Bay Area development project led by Carter Group indefinitely postponed."
Made sense, really. After Richard fired Olivia publicly, people looking to curry favor with him would naturally go after the Carters.
Once, there was a photo of Olivia. She looked different—haggard, hair loose, nothing like the polished corporate exec. But her eyes... I couldn't place it, but something about them made me uneasy.
The next morning, my phone buzzed me awake. Emma's number. 8:15 a.m. She never called this early.
"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.