Chapter 2 - The Narrative War
By dawn, the media war had escalated into full-scale digital combat.
I woke up in the private wing of the hospital to the muted glow of the wall-mounted television. Ashford Media Network was running a continuous ticker across the bottom of the screen: Billionaire Tech CEO Restrains Pregnant Wife During Severe Medical Episode at Children's Gala.
They had bought off two former acquaintances from my university days, who were currently giving live interviews describing my supposed history of "emotional instability" and "paranoia."
"Pure fiction," a cold voice spoke from the corner of the room.
It was Evelyn Vance, the most feared crisis PR manager and corporate attorney on Wall Street, whom my father had flown in from New York on a private jet at two in the morning. She held a steaming mug of black coffee, her tailored suit crisp despite the hour.
"Good morning, Victoria," Evelyn said, walking over to hand me an iPad. "They think they own the news cycle. They don't know we just bought the wire services."
I looked at the screen. While Derek’s network was pushing the "hysterical wife" angle, a barrage of high-resolution, unedited forty-eight-frame-per-second video footage had just leaked to every major global news outlet—including international bodies.
The video, shot from three different angles by gala guests, clearly showed Derek grabbing my throat with both hands, his face twisted in psychotic fury, throwing me toward the marble pedestal before being tackled by the heroic banquet waiters.
"Where did you get this?" I asked, gasping as I watched the horrifying scene replay.
"Your father paid the gala’s chief AV technician two million dollars for the raw, uncompressed master hard drive before Derek’s cleanup crew could wipe the server," Evelyn said with a brutal smile. "By six a.m., the footage went viral in seventy-two countries. The hashtag #JusticeForVictoria is currently trending number one worldwide."
Just then, my father walked in, accompanied by two men in dark suits carrying heavy leather briefcases.
"The District Attorney just signed an arrest warrant for attempted murder, felony assault, and domestic violence in the first degree," James announced, sitting down beside me. "Derek was picked up forty minutes ago at his Penthouse in Tribeca. The press was waiting on the curb when they put the handcuffs on him."
"Is he in jail?" I asked, feeling a wave of faint hope.
"For now," James replied grimly. "But his bail hearing is at two p.m. His mother, Eleanor Ashford, has already mobilized their political contacts. She’s pulling every string in the state court system to get him released on signature bond."
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I squeezed my father's hand. "Eleanor will never let him stay behind bars. She views me as an incubator who dared to shame her precious family line."
"Then we make sure the court sees him for what he truly is," James said. "A predator."
