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Chapter Thirty-Nine
Phoebe
The confidence I’d portrayed to everyone vanished the minute I stepped foot outside the Infiniti. As usual, the paparazzi littered the entrance, hoping to get the perfect shot of the grieving mother, recently dumped by her rock star husband. In a way, I couldn’t blame them. I was a walking, talking meal ticket. Cheesy made-for-TV movie writers couldn’t craft a better storyline.
“Everyone out of the way, now!” Everson’s voice boomed over the chatter as Jaxon shielded me with his own body and walked me inside the Burbank studio.
Once safely inside the walls of the Predator Confidential set, my body shook uncontrollably. My head told me the interview would help Iris. God, anything seemed better than cowering in the corner of my living room. But my heart cried for Julian to be beside me, holding me against him and telling me we were in this together.
But we weren’t. He’d made that perfectly clear when he all but told me to go to hell.
“Phoebe?” Jaxon cleared his throat and nudged me toward the hallway to my right. “They’re waiting. Are you sure you’re up to this? We can leave right now.”
A defeated smile played on the corners of my lips. Noble Jaxon. Dependable Jaxon. If only I could somehow mesh his support with the man who owned my heart, I’d have the perfect prince.
But I learned a long time ago, princes didn’t exist. They didn’t rescue you. Even when you hid under your bed and begged them to take you away from the pain. Nobody saved you but yourself. And I’d be damned if I’d let Iris learn that lesson if there was a chance she’d make it out of this.
Princes may not be real, but mothers were. I’d show the world, and the bastard whose blood ran in my veins, I couldn’t be beaten. Not as an abused child, not when he drove my mother to her death, not when he left me to die, and not as he held my precious baby in his hands like some goddamn carnival prize.
Glancing down the hallway at the makeup artist motioning for me to follow her, I squeezed his hand, my body rigid with resolve. “Let’s do this.”
Three words were all I spoke as I left him standing there, my gait strong and purposeful.
I’d had enough.
***
Two hours of makeup, hairstyling, and interview coaching later, I sat underneath the blinding lights of the Predator Confidential set in a shitty, red wingback chair facing famed sensational journalist Phil Carlson. His jet-black hair gleamed under the heavy lights. He’d slicked it back with enough hair gel it seemed crunchy. With a bad spray tan and veneers too large for his face, in any other situation, his cartoonish appearance would’ve made me laugh.
I tried to portray a put-together, determined woman, but if I didn’t stop fidgeting with my skirt, I’d come off as a neurotic basket case. That was the last image I wanted my father to see. Iris’s only chance was for me to reach him through the eyes of a fearless woman…not the cowering child he’d always known.
The cameraman counted down from three and pointed to Phil. In an instant, his face changed to an insincere warmth as he looked into the camera and began his intro.
“We were all told fairy tales as children, ones where the prince defeats the dragon, rescues the princess, and they live happily ever after. Only this tale started long ago in a small town in coastal North Carolina. One with so many twists, turns, and dragons, one would fathom to think how the royal couple could even make it this far. Ironically, they thought they’d beaten the odds. This tale, about a notorious rock star and his beautiful author princess, doesn’t have the happily ever after we’re used to hearing. Young and talented, they seemed to have it all—even a little princess. Until a monster from their past took it all away.”
Hearing the words strung together made the vomit rise in my throat and stagnate at the base of my tongue. How in the hell would I get through this without blowing breakfast all over his shiny black suit?
“I’m sitting with Phoebe Bale, wife of Lords of Lyre front man and overnight sensation, Julian Bale.” He turned to me. “Hi, Phoebe.”
I nodded politely. “Hello, Phil.”
“How are you holding up?”
I’m throwing a fucking picnic.
What kind of dumbass question was that? “I’ve been better.”
“Most Predator Confidential viewers will never forget the documentary we ran a few years ago on the slaying of Phoebe Dalton—attacked as a college freshman outside her dorm at Dreighton University. The story resonated with so many, not only due to the brutality of the attack, but because the perpetrator was the girl’s father. Miraculously, the victim survived, changed her name, and went into hiding.” He switched his gaze back to me. “Mrs. Bale, would you like to give your full name to our viewers at home?”
Not really, thanks. I’d like to kick you in the balls.
“Phoebe Ryan Bale.”
“More specifically, please.”
Asshole.
“Phoebe Dalton Ryan Bale.”
