CHAPTER 8: MEDIA CIRCUS

"ARE WALTON DIVORCE SECRETS ABOUT TO SPILL?"

The headline screamed from the newsstand as I hurried past, collar turned up against both the October chill and any potential recognition. Three weeks into the divorce proceedings, my face was everywhere—tabloids, gossip sites, even legitimate business publications. All of them speculating. All of them are wrong.

I ducked into the coffee shop where Samantha waited, removing my sunglasses only after scanning the room for phones pointed my way.

"Jesus, you look terrible," Sam said, pushing a latte toward me.

"Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear when her under-eye bags have their own I*******m account."

Sam's face softened. "Have you slept at all?"

I wrapped my cold fingers around the warm mug. "Sleep requires not having nightmares about Elizabeth Walton dissecting my life in front of a judge."

"Seen today's hit piece?" Sam slid her tablet across the table.

There I was again—an unflattering photo snapped mid-sentence outside the courthouse. The headline made my stomach curdle: "COLD AND CALCULATING: INSIDE ARIA CAMPBELL'S QUEST FOR WALTON BILLIONS."

"They found an ex-boyfriend from college who claims I discussed 'marrying rich' as a life goal." I took a scalding sip of coffee, welcoming the burn. "Which is fascinating, considering the only ex I had in college was broke Jason who played ultimate frisbee and couldn't afford to split our pizza bill."

"They're making it up."

"No, they're paying for it." I scrolled through the article. "What struggling grad student wouldn't take five figures to 'remember' conversations that never happened?"

Sam's phone buzzed. She glanced down, her expression darkening. "Your sister's at it again."

My chest tightened. "What now?"

She turned the phone so I could see Jessica's I*******m post—my sister looking somber in understated designer black, the perfect picture of concern. Her caption made bile rise in my throat:

*"Heartbroken watching my sister's choices tear apart a family I've grown to love. Some people can't see past dollar signs to what matters—building a family and supporting your husband's legacy. #PrayingForHealing #FamilyFirst"*

"Two thousand comments already," Sam muttered. "She's doing interviews tomorrow."

"Of course she is." The room tilted slightly, and I gripped the edge of the table. "She's sleeping with my husband and somehow I'm the villain."

"Ex-husband," Sam corrected gently.

"Not yet." The legal limbo was its special hell. "And the interviews will make things worse. Rebecca's already warned me the judge follows media coverage, despite claiming otherwise."

Sam reached across the table to grasp my hand. "Fight back. Tell your side."

"Rebecca says that's exactly what they want—me looking desperate and vindictive."

"Then what's the plan?"

The bell above the door jingled. A young woman with a toddler entered, navigating a massive stroller with practiced ease. Something sharp twisted beneath my ribs as I watched her smooth her child's hair.

"Aria?" Sam squeezed my hand. "Still with me?"

I blinked back to my attention. "The plan is to survive. One day at a time."

My phone vibrated with an incoming text. Marcus, confirming our meeting tonight. After his courthouse text, we'd arranged to meet somewhere the Waltons would never look—a dive bar in my old college neighborhood.

"I might have another option," I said, showing Sam the message. "Michael's right-hand man wants to talk."

Sam's eyes widened. "Marcus? The same Marcus they accused you of sleeping with? This reeks of setup."

"Or he knows something." I lowered my voice. "He's been with the company longer than Michael. If anyone knows where bodies are buried..."

"Or he's burying yours." Sam leaned forward. "The Waltons own him. Why would he help you?"

"I don't know. But I'm out of options."

My phone chimed with a news alert. I looked down and felt the blood drain from my face.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

I turned the phone so she could see the breaking story: "WALTON DIVORCE: SOURCES CLAIM ARIA CAMPBELL FAKED PREGNANCY ATTEMPTS, NEVER WANTED CHILDREN."

The coffee rose in my throat. I barely made it to the bathroom before retching, my body convulsing as I emptied my stomach. Five years of hormone injections. Three miscarriages. Countless nights sobbing in our bathroom, hiding the negative tests so Michael wouldn't see my failure again.

And they dared—they fucking dared—to claim I never wanted children?

I splashed cold water on my face, avoiding my reflection. When I returned to the table, Sam was on her phone, her expression thunderous.

"It's Jessica," she said without looking up. "She's the 'source close to the family.' She's going on some morning show tomorrow to discuss how you 'confided' in her about never wanting kids."

My hands trembled so badly that I had to set my cup down. "She knows about the miscarriages. She held my hand through the second one when Michael was in Tokyo."

"She's a snake." Sam's voice was flat with hatred.

"I need to call Rebecca."

My attorney answered on the first ring. "I've seen it," she said without preamble. "We're drafting a cease now, but the damage—"

"Is already done," I finished. "How do we fight this?"

"We don't engage directly. We're preparing a statement about medical privacy and the trauma of pregnancy loss being weaponized." Rebecca's voice softened marginally. "Aria, you need to stay off social media. Don't read the comments. Don't engage."

"They're saying I never wanted children," I whispered, my voice breaking. "After everything—"

"I know. It's cruel and it's false. But responding emotionally plays into their hands."

After ending the call, I stared blankly at the table. "She says to ignore it."

"Bullshit," Sam snapped. "You can't let them assassinate your character like this."

"What choice do I have?" I looked around the coffee shop, suddenly paranoid that someone was recording us. "The Waltons own half the media outlets in this state."

"Then we find another way." Sam's eyes flashed with determination. "There has to be something on them. Nobody's that clean."

As if on cue, my phone buzzed with another message from Marcus: *Bringing documents tonight. Trust no one from the family. Including Jessica.*

I showed Sam the text. "Maybe this is it."

"Or another trap." She sighed. "But what choice do we have? Just... be careful."

Outside the coffee shop, a photographer spotted me. The rapid-fire clicks of his camera followed as I hurried down the street, his voice calling after me: "Aria! Is it true you never wanted to be a mother?"

Each word felt like a physical blow. I kept walking, head down, sunglasses on, tears safely hidden behind dark lenses.

Back in my borrowed apartment—Sam's spare room, the only place I could afford now—I turned on the TV to distract myself. Bad mistake. There was Jessica, looking demure and concerned on some afternoon talk show.

"My sister changed after the wedding," she was saying, her voice dripping with rehearsed concern. "It was all about the social status, the Walton name. When it came to actually building a family... let's just say her priorities were elsewhere."

The host leaned forward. "Sources claim Aria told you she never intended to have children with Michael. Is that true?"

Jessica's practiced pause spoke volumes. "I don't want to betray my sister's confidence... but yes. She told me the fertility treatments were for show, to keep Michael's family happy while she enjoyed the Walton lifestyle."

The remote shattered against the wall before I realized I'd thrown it.

My phone rang—Samantha again. "Turn on channel seven. Now."

I fumbled for the broken remote, then manually changed the channel. There was Michael, leaving his office building, surrounded by reporters.

"Mr. Walton! How do you feel about your wife's deception regarding children?"

Michael's face was tight, his jaw clenched. For a moment, just a moment, I saw a flash of the man I'd married—the one who'd held me after each loss, who'd whispered that we'd keep trying, that it would happen for us.

"No comment," he said, pushing through the crowd.

Another reporter shouted: "Did you know she never wanted to be a mother?"

Michael stopped. Turned. His eyes blazed with something I couldn't name.

"My wife," he said slowly, deliberately, "wanted children more than anything. That's all I'll say on the matter."

He strode away, ignoring further questions.

I sat frozen, phone clutched to my ear. "Did you hear that?" I whispered to Sam.

"He defended you," she said, sounding as shocked as I felt.

"Why would he do that? After everything..."

"I don't know." Sam paused. "But be careful, Aria. This could be part of their strategy too."

I checked my watch. Three hours until I met Marcus. Three hours to decide if I was walking into salvation or a trap.

My phone buzzed with a news alert from a business publication: "WALTON INDUSTRIES SHARES DROP AMID DIVORCE SCANDAL."

Something cold and calculating awoke inside me. Maybe, just maybe, the mighty Waltons weren't as invincible as they thought.

I pulled out my notebook and began to write questions for Marcus. If he truly had information that could help me, I needed to be prepared.

The Waltons had money, power, and influence. But I had nothing left to lose.

And that made me dangerous.

—

My phone buzzed against the nightstand, jolting me from fitful sleep. The bright screen pierced the darkness of Samantha's guest room. 3:17 AM. An unknown number.

I almost declined it. Almost.

"Hello?" My voice came out raspy, weighed down by exhaustion.

"Aria." The deep voice sent a shock through my system. "It's Marcus."

I sat bolt upright, heart hammering. The last person I expected to hear from.

"How did you get this number? I thought I blocked you because I don’t know why you are trying to contact me during this period" The words tumbled out, sharp with suspicion.

"That's not important." His voice was low, urgent. "I need to meet with you. Today."

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the fog from my brain. "Why would I meet with anyone from Michael's circle?"

"Because what I have to tell you changes everything." A pause. "It's about Jessica."

My sister's name hit like a slap. I gripped the phone tighter.

"I'm listening."

"Not over the phone. The coffee shop on Willow Street. Nine AM."

The line went dead before I could respond.