The city sprawled beneath a velvet December sky, its neon arteries pulsing in rhythmic defiance of the dark. From the streets below, the lights looked festive—holiday reds and greens mixed with the usual electric blues—but high on the hill, one mansion blazed with a colder, harsher glow. Every window lit, every room occupied by frantic movement. It didn't look alive. It looked cornered.
Inside the mansion, Steven paced like a caged animal, bare feet slapping against chilled marble. His phone was glued to his ear, knuckles white around it.
"Find her," he snarled into the receiver. "Shut the sites down. Wipe everything. Pay whoever you have to. I don't care what it costs."
A pause. Then Gina's voice, cool and unflinching on the other end: "It's too late, Steven. You're trending worldwide. Every major outlet has the story."
He stopped dead in the center of the living room.
The wall-mounted television blared silently until he hit the remote. Sound flooded the room.
Breaking News ticker: BILLIONAIRE STEVEN DERULO IMPLICATED IN SEXUAL MISCONDUCT SCANDAL INVOLVING PREGNANT UNIVERSITY STUDENT.
His own face filled the screen—archived red-carpet footage juxtaposed with the blurry stills now circulating online.
"No," he whispered. Then louder: "No, no, no."
The phone left his hand in a violent arc, shattering against the glass coffee table in an explosion of plastic and circuits.
Across town, in the shadowed elegance of Tanya's penthouse, the only light came from screens. A bank of monitors lined one wall like a war room: one displayed a livestream countdown, another cycled through cable news coverage, a third showed a spreadsheet of names—dozens of girls, dates, contracts, payouts. Years of ammunition, cataloged and ready.
Anissa sat on the edge of the white leather couch, a soft blanket draped over her knees more for comfort than warmth. Her shoulders were rigid, jaw set. Nelly sat beside her, close enough that their arms brushed, both of them staring at the main laptop screen.
The viewer count on the streaming platform climbed in real time: 8,700… 13,000… 21,500…
Anissa's fingers hovered over the keyboard. They trembled, just slightly.
Nelly's voice was soft, almost lost in the hum of electronics. "Once you hit that button… there's no going back."
Anissa's gaze drifted to one of the side monitors. It played an old clip on mute: Steven, younger, shirtless, smug, fingers gripping a crying girl's chin hard enough to bruise.
She swallowed once, hard. Drew in a slow, deliberate breath.
"Good," she said, quiet but fierce.
Her finger came down on the enter key.
The red LIVE indicator flashed to life.
The frame filled with her face. The faint yellow-green remnants of a healing bruise shadowed one eye; her lower lip was still slightly swollen. But her stare burned straight into the lens—unflinching, electric.
"My name is Anissa Wallenstein," she began, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "And this is my story."
Behind her, Tanya moved like a director in the shadows, switching feeds with practiced clicks. The screen split: silent footage of other girls—faces blurred for now—tears streaking mascara, voices muted but postures screaming fear. Signed nondisclosure agreements flashed next, followed by bank transfers, then audio overlays of Steven's voice—threatening, coaxing, owning.
"I am not the only one," Anissa continued. "But I will be the last."
The chat erupted. Hearts, fire emojis, messages scrolling too fast to read.
Viewer count surged: 39,000… 68,500… 100,000.
Back in the mansion, Steven stood frozen in front of a tablet propped on the bar, watching the stream. His reflection ghosted over Anissa's face—pale, sweating, unraveling.
Ronnie edged closer. "Boss, we can still fix this. Lawyers, PR team—"
Steven whirled. "You little rat."
He lunged, seizing Ronnie by the throat and slamming him backward into the floor-to-ceiling window. Glass vibrated but held.
"You sold me out," Steven hissed, fingers tightening. "Didn't you?"
"Not me, man, I swear—!"
Gina's voice cut through from the doorway. "Police are at the gate."
Steven's head snapped toward her. For a moment, pure animal panic flashed across his face. Then he released Ronnie, who slumped gasping to the floor, and reached for the drawer in the coffee table.
His hand closed around the grip of a matte-black handgun.
Outside Tanya's building, red and blue lights painted the façade in strobing color. Sirens echoed up the canyon of skyscrapers.
Tanya answered the door herself—silk robe cinched tight, lips painted blood-red, expression serene.
The lead detective held up his badge. "Tanya Smith?"
"That's me," she said, voice smooth as the wine she'd been sipping earlier. "You're going to want to see this."
She extended a silver flash drive between two manicured fingers.
"Your entire case," she added. "Gift-wrapped."
On the livestream, the comments poured in like a flood:
I believe you.
Steven Derulo is DONE.
You're brave as hell, sis.
Justice for ALL of them.
Anissa's voice finally cracked near the end. Tears welled, but she refused to blink them away.
Nelly reached over, resting a gentle hand on hers.
"You did it," Nelly whispered.
Anissa couldn't answer. Her whole body shook with the aftershock of it all, but she stayed in frame—raw, exhausted, undeniably present.
At the mansion, the front doors burst inward under a battering ram. Tactical officers poured in, weapons raised.
Steven stood alone in the center of the living room, tablet still glowing with Anissa's face.
On screen, her final words: "You don't own me anymore."
"Hands where we can see them!" the lead detective bellowed.
Steven's fingers tightened on the gun. Fury pulsed through him like a second heartbeat.
He started to raise it.
Gina moved first—launching herself at him from the side, shoulder driving into his ribs. The gun flew from his hand, clattering across marble.
He roared in rage and betrayal as officers swarmed, forcing him face-down, cuffs clicking cold around his wrists.
Later—hours later—the city had gone quiet again. The frenzy of lights and sirens faded into the ordinary hum of a late night before Christmas.
Anissa stepped out onto Tanya's private terrace. The air was sharp, biting her cheeks, but it felt clean. She filled her lungs with it, slow and deliberate.
Freedom tasted metallic and cold, like the first breath after surfacing from deep water.
I survived him, she thought. For every girl who didn't get the chance.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket.
A text from Tanya: We make our own empires now.
Anissa's lips curved—the smallest, hardest smile.
She tilted her head back, eyes on the scattered stars.
"Tick tock, bitch," she whispered to the night.