Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙
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“To the future!” Faith raised her glass.
Julian clinked his against hers.
Dark red wine trembled against the rim and spilled a little over the edge.
He was buzzed, but still clearheaded.
Faith could drink far more than he had expected.
Between them, they had shared far too much wine and then called for Chivas on top of it.
Mixing the two had made them reckless, though neither had crossed the line into losing control.
“Drink less,” Julian said.
“You do not want me throwing you over my shoulder to take you home.”
“Of course not.” Faith tipped her head back and drained the glass.
A flush spread across her face, and her smile had turned dangerously playful.
“You could use a more gentlemanly method.
Carry me.”
Under the table, Faith had quietly slipped off one high heel.
Julian’s smile turned openly wicked.
“If I carry you, I may not be willing to take you home.”
Buying an entertainment brand had been the right decision after all.
“No,” Faith said, propping her chin on one hand.
“Taylor is waiting for me.”
At the nearby table, the two men saw the tablecloth shift.
They exchanged a look.
“We are getting rich.”
“When Faith Hill sees headlines tomorrow about flirting with her young boss, her jaw is going to hit the floor.”
The older of the two gave a cynical laugh.
“She will not feel shame.
People like that have fewer scruples than you think.”
By the time Julian and Faith walked out of the restaurant with their arms around each other, it was already four-thirty in the afternoon.
“Jules,” Faith said, her cheeks flushed but her speech and steps still steady.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Obviously to a hotel so we can do homework,” Julian said, the alcohol making him bold.
Faith leaned close and tapped her earlobe.
“Why not do homework in the car?”
Julian paused.
“Are you sure?”
Faith met his eyes and pulled him back toward her.
“Completely.”
As soon as they entered the elevator, the two reporters slipped out of the crowd and followed.
“Did you get everything?”
“Medium shots, close-ups, detail shots.
Enough to feed the story for days.”
Julian had no idea his and Faith’s reckless intimacy had been captured so precisely.
American journalism was often called the Fourth Estate, and in the entertainment age it had given birth to a sprawling gossip trade.
These reporters lived on tips, informants, and photographs of famous people at their worst.
The two men were Nashville stringers who sold material to TMZ.
They had received a tip from the repair shop and driven over immediately.
Julian and Faith would have been gone by then, except Faith had been on the phone negotiating the record-company acquisition and Julian had stayed parked long enough for them to catch up.
They followed the pair to the restaurant, photographed lunch, then captured the scene by the elevator.
Now, in the underground parking garage, they saw Julian’s large Dodge Ram sitting like a boat in dark water.
The front window was fogged over.
A hand slapped hard against the glass, fingers spread, then slowly slid down.
The image looked straight out of Titanic.
“Shit.
We are about to be rich.”
The two stringers were nearly shaking with excitement.
It was still 2007, before smartphones and social feeds had made scenes like this routine.
A scene like this could shock the country.
“Should we go bigger?
Get a close-up?”
“What if he hits us?”
“Then we make even more.
We might retire off the lawsuit.”
TMZ would pay six figures for the pictures alone.
If Julian dared to assault them, the price would climb.
There was no bad outcome.
They crouched and crept to the side of the truck.
Then they raised the camera and started firing.
The flash popped again and again.
Within seconds, the door was shoved open so hard it knocked them backward.
“Get the camera!” Faith screamed from inside the truck.
Julian stepped down, still putting himself back together, and stood in front of them.
One of the men managed to snap a full-body shot.
“You are violating my privacy,” Julian said through clenched teeth.
Faith had been right.
Gossip reporters were everywhere.
One of the stringers shrugged and smirked.
“Save it, Mr.
Moretti.
This is a parking garage.
Public area.”
“How much do you want?”
The two men looked at each other, and Julian could almost see a mountain of gold appear in their eyes.
“A hundred million.”
“Each.”
“For that price, you had better be selling me the entire network.”
“Julian Moretti,” one of them said, his confidence sharpening, “we both have recorders on us.
A judge will not think you were joking.”
“Hey, show him some respect,” the other added.
“The man is here to discuss business.”
They played off each other smoothly.
This was not their first extortion attempt.
“You want me dead, then?” Julian said with a cold smile.
“No, no.
This is business.
If Mr.
Moretti offers a reasonable price, we will hand over every piece of equipment on us.”
The problem was that they, not Julian, planned to decide what reasonable meant.
“Forget it,” Julian said.
“I prefer a simpler solution.”
He stepped forward and hit the first man in the face.
As the man staggered, Julian took the camera from his hand, threw it to the concrete, and crushed it under his heel.
Then he moved toward the second.
The man had just pulled out his phone to call the police when Julian kicked him hard enough to send him sliding across the floor.
Both stringers were large men, but Julian’s new body made the fight one-sided.
Strength, reach, and speed did the rest.
“You are insane,” one man groaned, clutching his chest.
He thought his ribs were broken.
“You assaulted reporters,” the other shouted, holding his face.
“You are finished.”
“Write whatever you want,” Julian said.
“You will not have the photos.”
He picked up a recorder that had fallen from the man’s pocket and snapped it in his hands.
Destroying the devices would not erase the assault.
The victims, witnesses, 911 call, and injuries would still exist.
But if the intimate photographs had not yet been transmitted, Julian could at least keep the more damaging story from spreading.
In 2007, automatic cloud backups and instant social uploads were not yet standard.
If the files were still stored only on the devices, he had a narrow opening.
What happened with Faith was probably impossible to hide now.
Still, at least the assault story would bury the more intimate one.
Destroying the pictures would limit the scandal, but it also created another legal problem.
Julian was already thinking about how Saul might contain both.
He searched both of them thoroughly and found two miniature cameras, three phones, a tracker that could attach under a car, and another recorder disguised as a lighter.
He destroyed everything, along with the cameras in their hands, until the pieces were too broken to recover.
Then he looked up and saw several onlookers standing at a distance.
Someone had clearly called 911.
He did not know whether any of them had cameras.
Julian climbed back into the truck and looked at Faith, who still had not fully steadied her breathing.
“Call Danielle and have her send a driver,” he said.
“Do not get behind the wheel.
I will stay here and wait for the police.”
Then he took out his phone and sent Saul a message.
Come to Nashville.
Bail me out.
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I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.