CHAPTER TWO- The blip

|Thomas|

My jaw still aches. A dull, persistent throb that reminds me of the insult I endured last night.

"Little," she'd called my balls. A smirk tugs at one part of my lips, and my rod tightens. Her audacity had been almost... refreshing.

Until the rage I had felt when I heard the whispers return.

Who the hell does that attention-seeking whore think she is? She dared to raise her palm at me?

Dotted rays of sunlight skim through the window onto the table across, and a scoff escapes my throat.

I grab my phone from the table and dial.

"Is the location for the video shoot ready?" I say into the phone, leaning back into my chair. I need to get that ugly incident at the party behind me as soon as possible.

"Yes, sir," a male voice replies, "but we have a problem."

My jaw tightens.

"What is it?"

"The incident at the party last night is blowing up despite your efforts, and there's a handful of reporters seeking to speak with you concerning—"

I don't wait for him to finish. My thumb stabs the power button, then redials. I grind my teeth, the pressure aching in my jaw.

"Get Mr. Neil on the phone!" I order.

"Yes, sir," my receptionist's shaky voice drifts into my ears.

A minute later, she calls back. "He's on line 3—"

Pressing a button, I switch to the third line, cutting her off abruptly, and Mr. Neil's grainy voice fills my ears. "What's up, my boy. How's ya doing?"

God, I hate that voice.

I press my fist to my forehead, then lower it, forcing a steady breath. "You promised to prevent it from getting to the press."

"Oh, about that. I did, but ya know how hard it is to keep other rich, non-celebrities from having fun..."

He trails off for a second, and I clench my fist.

"But, look on the bright side, my friend, the world is on ya side even when they shouldn't."

"I didn't do it." My voice is low, gritty.

"Whoa, relax, buddy. I didn't say ya did."

I close my eyes, then take a deep breath.

"All I'm saying is, I don't want to be involved in this kind of scandal. I've got an album coming up—"

"Then, consider this a free PR and use it to ya best interest," he cuts in. "Look, celebrities thrive on things like this. No matter how it doesn't align with ya principles, make the best of it."

And with that, the line goes dead. I stare at the screen in my hands. I badly want to strangle him.

No matter how I detest this or Neil's arrogant tone, he is right. I might have to milk this for all it's worth.

Leaning back into the chair, my reflection in the phone's black screen stares back at me, eyes sunken, jaw tight, like I've been fighting for years.

I exhale through my nose and shake it off.

Then, I redial the phone. "Get the PR agent here, now," I say sternly and hang up.

Moments pass by until a knock rasps on my door, and Mark, the PR agent, walks in.

"Good morning, sir," he greets. "You asked to see me."

Ignoring his greetings, I flung some papers at him.

"Read the instructions carefully and do as I say. The focus should be on the album, you got it?"

"But sir, the narrative is already—"

My eyes dart toward him, narrowing. The room goes silent, daring him to utter one more word.

Mark's mouth clicks shut. He sighs. "Yes, sir," he says and walks out of my office.

For every hour since Mark walked out the door, my body hasn't stayed still.

After hours of restless pacing, I grab my phone and check every news outlet, and as predicted, my face is plastered everywhere.

As I scroll through the comments, I automatically categorize them. Useful. Noise. Useless.

"@RealFan22: Disgusting! That psycho needs to be arrested. Celebrities shouldn't have to deal with deranged stalkers attacking them. #JusticeForThomas"

I nod in approval. The skank might have been one of those crazy fans who want to get famous on one of those apps. What's it called? TikTok!

My eyes glaze over a few of them carefully again, making sure I do not click on anything to draw attention or change the narrative.

"@KnightsCoFan: She's an 'unknown party crasher.' Enough said. She was clearly looking for a payout and went straight for attention. #FakeVictim"

"@RichAndRight: This is why we need stricter security at exclusive events. These nobodies just crash for their fifteen minutes of fame."

I let a small, humorless smile flatten my face. "Of course, the skank is predictable. Everyone sees her for what she is: a common opportunist hiding behind a flimsy cause."

Then, one comment from a user called @LegalEagle made my breath still in my lungs.

"She physically assaulted him! It doesn't matter what she claims he did; you can't hit someone. Where are the police? Lock her up for assault."

My scrolling halts. I narrow my eyes and arch my brows.

I lean back into the chair as a thought cuts through the noise.

Press charges. Why didn't I think of this sooner?

But I need evidence, I click my tongue.

Without thinking, I enter the search bar and type out details of the incident, and within a heartbeat, hundreds of the same video of the incident pop up.

Trending, I see.

I click on one. The sound of the slap on my cheeks makes me grit my teeth. This is humiliating, and anger coils in my stomach.

The audacity of such a low-life!

I pause the video, my thumb hovering on the screen before zooming in on her face.

The defiance in her eyes is electrifying even through the pixelated screen.

I admit I hadn't gotten a clearer picture of her face last night due to the shock, but seeing her now twists an irritating knot in my stomach.

But she's pretty—I'd give her that.

Then, my gaze drops to the purse dangling from her arm. I scoff. Of course, she owns a phony designer purse. How fake can she be?

While still looking at the party crasher, a notification pops up on my phone, and I click on it.

It's from Mark. "I did as you said. The public post is on all of your social media platforms, and I also released your album."

Before I finish reading, tons of notifications troop in. Blogs and news outlets now have a new headline.

"Zero Tolerance: Thomas Knights Responds to 'Fabricated Attack' with Unexpected 'CHAOS' Album Release"

A huge grin plays on my lips. The face of the girl and her fake purse are already fading into a footnote.

Satisfied, I grab my jacket and head out. I have an album to promote.