Page 55

The blinding flashes of the cameras singe my skin, each trigger click feeling like bullets aimed at me. I’m standing behind the podium at Kensington Hotel, about to deliver a quaking blow that’ll shatter life as I know it into a million pieces. The press gathers in front of me, a swath of grays and blacks sitting in orderly rows, their hushed murmuring and quizzical whispers echoing in my ears.

Elias’s words three days ago sweep into my mind.

“The best defense is offense sometimes,” he murmured, his piercing eyes pinning me in place as I brushed past him on my way out of the MacGregor Whiskey Library after our meeting.

I stopped and turned toward him. “Do you think this will work, Elias?”

He cocked his head to the side, the long scar on his cheek facing me. “You’re taking control of the narrative.”

I nodded. “How do you know so much about PR strategy, Elias? I don’t think this is part of the usual curriculum of a mobster, is it?”

Elias smirked, his eyes twinkling, and he replied, “Strategy is part of everything.”

He sobered and something flashed in his gaze. “And I learned from the best.”

Blowing out a deep breath, I repeat my affirmations inside my head.

I can do this. I’m a fighter, a warrior, a survivor. The past didn’t kill me and this won’t either.

I bite my lip and think back to the revelation of Ian and me being at the same place that night. Maybe my body wasn’t overreacting when I first saw him at ABTC.

Maybe I should’ve trusted myself. Deep down, I must have known the truth all along.

My body didn’t betray me this time.

The thought, as strange as it may be, gives me strength.

I look at the front row and find Charles’s eyes first. He sits there, clad in a formfitting dark gray suit, his posture deceptively relaxed, but I know his tells now. The muscle pulsing on his forehead. The slight crinkle between his brows. The strain of his forced smile. I nod at him and he mouths, “I love you. No matter what.”

A flash of warmth burrows inside me. I’ve forgiven him for not telling me his suspicion about Ian. There are bigger problems to worry about and I really understand where he’s coming from. He didn’t want to believe the man he loves can be a monster.

I hope that isn’t the case and somehow, this is all a coincidence.

My heart skips a beat as I scan the rest of the row, noting Maxwell, Ethan, Grace, the rest of my siblings, and my girls, minus Olivia, who has to see patients today, but she gave me the sweetest pep talk this morning. Even Belle is there, trying to fend off photographers wanting to take a close-up of her belly. The first Anderson grandchild is a topic of interest for the gossip rags.

The whispers grow louder; the crowd waiting impatiently for me to begin. No doubt they’re wondering why so many Andersons are all in one place on a normal June afternoon.

“I’m ready to begin,” I announce into the microphone and wince as the shrill screeching of feedback reaches my ears. A staff member adjusts the mic and motions for me to continue.

“Thank you all for coming.” I grip the podium tightly as I stare at Charles, pretending only he’s in the room. “I’m sure you’re curious why you’re here today.”

I clear my throat. “One in six American women has been a victim of attempted or completed rape in her lifetime. Most victims experience PTSD or other mental disorders after their assault. In fact, every sixty-eight seconds, an American is sexually assaulted.”

When I prepared for this speech, I decided not to make it just about my experience, but also to shine a light on this horrible reality. Too many victims live in silence, in fear, in shame. I won’t do it anymore. If I have a platform, I’m going to make some noise.

A hush falls over the crowd as the tension thickens.

Nausea swirls in my gut, my sweat drenching the simple blue dress I have on. I take a deep breath to fortify myself and push out the next words.

“I am one of those women. When I was sixteen, I was drugged and raped.”

Chaos erupts in the room as cameras click, the flashes a constant barrage of light searing my eyes. I close them as reporters bark out questions, their voices merging into one big roar in my ears.

“Silence! Let her finish!” Charles’s loud voice pierces through the ruckus, followed by shocked gasps and uneasy silence again.

Opening my eyes, I find his gaze again. His jaw is tense, his hands fisted on his lap. He gives me a subtle nod of encouragement.

Keeping my eyes on him, I recite the words carefully prepared for me by Lana.

“It occurred at a hotel lounge after a ballet event. A man slipped something into my drink and I was assaulted. It was the worst night of my life. The assailants are still out there because I was too scared to pursue the case after the police ignored me. I was young, a poor teenager from the Bronx.”

Heaving out a ragged exhale, I drag my eyes away from Charles to the press, taking in the horrified expressions on their faces, the mad scribbling of pens on paper, sympathy shining from some of the female reporters’ eyes.

“I was powerless and silenced, like too many before me and, unfortunately, too many after me. No one believed me and I was forced to deal with the aftermath by myself. To live in fear, to be afraid of men, afraid of the world, my innocence shattered.”

A spark of energy gathers in my gut and travels to my chest. These are words I’ve yearned to say ever since that fateful night and never realized how much it pained me to keep them inside. The physical wounds healed and are now invisible, but the mental anguish—that has never left.

And I couldn’t tell anyone.

“But I won’t be silenced anymore. Because this was not my fault. Because I deserved to be heard, just like other women in my unfortunate position. Regardless of my background—whether I was a poor girl from the Bronx or a member of the Anderson family—I deserved to be believed and be treated with dignity instead of doubt and suspicion. I hope by standing up here today and sharing with you my story, I’ll inspire other women to come forward. To tell their stories. To tell them they can stand back up again.”

A few people applaud, but I hold up my hand. “I wish I could tell you I’m doing this because of sheer bravery, but that isn’t the case. I’m being blackmailed by one of the assailants.”

Horrified whispers echo in the room and I force myself to continue, “This individual has photos and possibly videos of me and is threatening to disclose what they did to me if I don’t comply with their wishes, which is to stop investigating what happened to me.”

Leaning forward, I stare into the cameras aimed at my face. “I’m here to give that bastard a message. I’m not backing down. I’m not giving up. And I know who you are. I am coming for you.”

My heart sprints circles inside me, a tornado of conflicting emotions gathering strength. “And to all of you in this room, I plead that you will be an ally to the women in my position. If you receive photos or videos of me from this criminal, I implore you not to post them, to respect my privacy, and not to play into his hands. I also want to remind you I was underage when this happened, and all images are illegal, considered as child pornography, and should never see the light of day. Thank you all for being here today.”

My legs tremble as I walk off the stage toward the staff hallway. I hear the reporters hurling questions at my back, and I quicken my steps, fleeing the chaos behind me. Turning back to look at the room before I step inside the hallway, I see Charles and my siblings joining forces with the security team, blocking the reporters and photographers from following me.

Five minutes later, I make my way down to the side exit of the hotel where a car should be waiting for me to take me back to Charles’s place. We figured it’d be best if I headed over there first before the word got out and more press surrounded the building. I’m lightheaded and dizzy, a jitteriness filling my veins like I’m having a sugar crash. A wave of relief at everything being out there, on my terms, unmoors me, followed by the crushing grief and blistering anger.

Curiously, one emotion—the one that has haunted me the most in the past eight years—is missing.

Fear.

I’ve taken the power away from the bastard.

He can’t hurt me anymore.

Exhilaration joins the turmoil and I want to cry, to laugh, to sink to my knees and to tell that little girl who believed in princes and true love that she’ll be okay.

Because she’s a survivor.

I push open the door, expecting to see the black town car at the curb, but am met with a swarm of reporters instead. They must’ve found out from their colleagues inside the room. Glancing around, I find the town car parked across the street next to more press vans, no doubt because my side of the curb is blocked by traffic cones. There’s no way I can make it over there without getting mauled.

“Ms. Peyton-Anderson, do you remember what the attacker looked like?”

“Ms. Peyton-Anderson, aren’t you afraid of retaliation?”

“How many men were there? Are they old, young? Are they from your ballet company?”

“Taylor, look over here! Taylor!”

Blinding white lights flash in my face, the crowd converging toward me as I hold out my hands.

“Back up!” I yell, but they don’t listen. They all just want the story, want an exclusive—men and women alike, waving their phones and notepads in the air, their cameras and microphones thrusted at my face.

Panic jolts my insides, my breathing coming in quick pants.

Then I hear the deafening roar of a motorcycle smashing past traffic cones before skidding to a stop by the curb. Snapping my eyes up, I see a man wearing all black on the bike. He takes off his helmet and shakes out his dirty blond hair, his familiar sky-blue eyes pinned on me.

Liam Vaughn. Charles’s brother.

He twists the throttle again, the engine revving loudly. “Taylor, hop on!”

Quickly, I scramble toward him, throw myself onto his bike, don the helmet he hands me, and we speed away, leaving the crowd of reporters in the dust.