<b>The </bpany’s website crashed almost instantly, flooded with demands <b>for </b><b>an </b>exnation on Fitch’s behalf. Some pointed out discrepancies between the


    drowned </b>out by the crowd.


    To the public, Fitch was the underdog, while A&C Entertainment represented cold, unfeeling corporate greed–the enemy to be taken down.


    “That’s enough. Release the videos,” Larkin said calmly, ncing at the surging traffic.


    The head of Public Rtions understood immediately. With a single click, he sent


    the videos out into the world.


    There were two in total. The first showed Fitch in the recording studio, his cocky attitude on full disy–a demeanor that made viewers bristle. The second was a rundown of the entire incident, ending with a blurred–out clip in which only Fitch’s face remained clear. He could be seen jabbing a finger at a young woman, as if about to strike her, only to have the tables turned on him.


    The video closed on Fitch’s anguished scream. Even before Fitch could react, Jason weighed in on his own social media ount.


    “Certain people have made it clear only Moon is good enough topose for them. Apparently, I’m not worth their time.”


    He didn’t name names, but everyone‘ knew who he meant. Overnight, the rumor that Liam had stolen Fitch’s song crumbled away.


    Moon was a legend, but only ever coborated with Tristan. Jason, on the other hand, was one of the industry’s hottest producers–almost everyone had worked with him at some point. The moment his statement went live, artists who’d coborated with him rushed to offer support. Some were genuine, others saw an opportunity to curry favor.


    The drama kept spiraling, arguments online growing louder by the hour.


    “Go ahead,” Larkin said as soon as the videos dropped.


    A new statement appeared on thepany’s website. No pictures, no video–just three words:


    “See you in court.”


    Almost simultaneously<b>, </b><b>a </b>statement appeared on the Libra <b>& </b><b>Associates </b><b>website </b>


    <b>“</b>On behalf of multiple victims, we are filing rape charges against Fitch.”


    Fitch barely had time to process this before another video surfaced, this <b>time </b>featuring the victims themselves. Faces blurred, voices altered, they described in detail how Fitch had drugged and assaulted them.


    One blow after another. Fitch stared at the screen, his face draining of color as thest video ended.


    “Candace, what do I do?” he stammered.


    “Rape? What is this about rape? What have you been hiding from me?” Candace’s hands shook, disbelief written all over her face.


    “It’s all lies! They’re trying to smear me! You have to believe me!” Fitch desperately reached for her hand, but she wrenched free.


    Lies? Wasn’t her own story almost identical?


    Back before Fitch was famous, Candace had been one of his first fans. She’d agreed to dinner with him, time and again, drawn by his charm. Somehow, every time, the evening ended the same way–she’d wake up the next morning in his bed. Fitch had apologized, whispered sweet nothings, showered her with expensive gifts. Little by little, Candace was swept along, and when he promised to help her break into the industry, she became his girlfriend.


    Watching the victims‘ testimony, Candace finally understood. Her jaw tightened, eyes filling with tears. She closed her eyes and took a long, shaky breath. By the time she opened them, all emotion had drained away.


    “Libra & Associates has theirwyers involved now. You’d better call your dad and see if he can get you out of this. I can’t help you,” she said quietly.


    One misstep had ruined everything. She’d had real potential–a promising future, wasted on foolish youth. The irony stung.


    Fitch, oblivious to Candace’s change in tone, fumbled for his phone in a panic.


    Suddenly, his ringtone red. It was his father.


    Fitch swallowed hard, his trembling hands nearly dropping the phone as he answered.


    13:38


    <b>“</b><b>Dad</b><b>…</b>”