Chapter 69

CHAPTER 69

Skye

Six Months Later

Paris

"M aman! Papa! Regardez-moi! Je danse sur le pont!"

The sweet raspy voice calls out to us, the French accent perfect.

My heart warms as I watch my pigtailed daughter frolic across Paris's majestic Pont Royal, swinging Kangy and her baby Joey. She's wearing the big yellow hat and royal blue coat that I bought her for her fifth birthday . My Madeline! The coat, which hung on her then, now fits her perfectly. My little girl is getting big!

Finn squeezes my hand as we trail her. "She's something," he says, love and pride brimming in his voice.

"Yup."

"Just like her mother. Smart, beautiful, and brave."

I feel myself blush. "And artistic like her father."

To my joy, Finn's career has continued to soar. Without Kayla, who's disappeared from the art scene. His first show in Paris at a prestigious Left Bank gallery sold out, each painting commanding six figures. Later this year, we will be going to Art Basel in Switzerland, the premier art show of Europe that brings together the who's who of the art world, and then to Hong Kong where Finn's work is in high demand among wealthy Chinese art collectors.

As we walk across the bridge hand in hand, our fingers entwined, I take in the magnificent City of Light and think how lucky I am to be here with my family. I almost lost my life—not once, but twice. One tragic night I may never completely remember; the other I will never forget. As I look down at the Seine, a tourist boat cruises under the bridge. People of all ages are clamoring on the two decks, enjoying the sights of the city and the mild spring weather. I shudder. Six months ago I was hanging over the deck of a yacht in the Pacific Ocean, facing a dark, stormy sea. And a more tumultuous future. Possibly none. With Sheldon Greenberg pinning me against the railing, holding a gun to the base of my neck, I was minutes away from being shark chum. To my horror, the squad of police boats, which had come to apprehend my assailant, retreated. Unbeknownst to me, it was all part of a carefully executed but risky plan. The helicopter that I'd heard overhead earlier didn't fly off. Rather, while the distracting bellow of police sirens sounded below, it stealthily landed on the yacht's helicopter pad. Inside it was LAPD's infamous homicide detective, Pete Billings. And my husband. Both armed and wearing bulletproof vests.

About to say adieu to my life, I heard a gunshot. Cold and nauseated, I couldn't understand why I felt no pain. Perhaps death was numbing. In my last moments of consciousness, the night of my near-fatal car crash flashed into my head. I wasn't even going to take the fleeting memory to my grave because I knew my body this time would never be found. I'd never see my husband or daughter again. Nor would I ever see Greenberg rot in hell.

Darkness claimed me. It wasn't until I came to in my husband's arms moments later that I learned that Billings had nailed Greenberg with one shot. A bullet to his lower back. No, it didn't kill him. Death was too good for him. Instead, the bullet shattered his spine, leaving him quadriplegic, paralyzed from the neck down and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his sorry life. It was a perfect punishment for the predatory monster. Groping women and forcing them to have sex with him will never happen again. He has no use of his limbs, and his dick is as useless as tits on a bull.

His confession—all of it—was caught on tape via the smart watch Billings had given me. Both his attempt on my life and his sexual assault of Nicole Farrell. I, who reported news, was now headline news. Soon after my Pulitzer-nominated story appeared on the cover of Vanity Fair, women came out of the woodwork like termites and told the media of how Sheldon had harassed them and/or assaulted them. The first was actress Zoey Taylor, who shared how Sheldon had once propositioned her when she was a masseuse. Then, another after another and not just actresses. The list ranged from writers, directors, and assistants to a FedEx driver, a hotel waitress, and even his proctologist's nurse. A thirty year history of sexual harassment and abuse. His actions disgusting, appalling, and unconscionable, running the gamut from masturbating in front of his victims to forcing them to have kinky sex with him... and everything revolting in between.

All of us testified at his trial, all of us sitting together in the courtroom and wearing black in solidarity. The world had to know about the atrocities we'd suffered at the hands of this monster. The shame and pain we'd endured. The #RememberMeToos we called ourselves. Clad in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, a dissipated Sheldon sat in the front in his wheelchair with his lawyer, his head bowed down the entire time, unable to face us. When the no-nonsense female judge read him his sentence—one hundred seventy years in prison with no chance of parole—he looked up briefly and muttered, "I'm sorry." The bastard couldn't even say the two words to our faces. In unison, we gave him the finger.

Sheldon's two guards, who'd attempted to shoot me, were also tried. Pleading guilty, they were each given twenty-five years.

The shitstorm didn't stop with Sheldon. Within days of my exposé, women came out of the woodwork and spoke out about other sexually abusive Hollywood moguls—top directors, producers, executives, and writers. The stories were ugly. Among those implicated was my former boss Jim Hartley, who thanks to his strong defense team, got off being tried as an accessory to murder. But he got his due anyway. Several of my colleagues came forward and accused him of unwanted sexual advances, a few sexually molested against their will. Settlements were made and Jim lost his job. Plus, his wife and two kids. Sentenced to ten years in prison with no parole, the cowardly womanizer wept on the air. I almost felt sorry for him.

Nicole and I, however, weren't done with Greenberg after he was sentenced. Nor were the other #RememberMeToos. Collectively, we filed a class action civil lawsuit for physical and emotional damages. Another victory! We won and were awarded in excess of ten million dollars plus the proceeds of his art collection once it was auctioned off. None of us needed or wanted the money, so we pooled it and started a #RememberMeToo Legal Defense Fund to aid other victims of sexual abuse. My words— Speak Out! —became our credo.

As we near the end of the bridge, my joyful daughter shouts out again, cutting into my reminiscing and bringing me back to the present. Our beautiful here and now.

"Maman, je veux une glace!"

Standing by a vendor, she wants some ice cream.

"You want some too?" asks my husband.

I can't pass up his offer. He knows how much I love ice cream—especially the French kind. He jogs ahead of me to catch up with Maddie and then returns with two cones, a noisette for me and a chocolat for him. After he hands me mine, I get to work, licking the creamy cold treat with my tongue. I roll it around and then lick up and down. It's so, so good!

"Jeez. You're making me hard," laughs Finn.

Laughing, I take another long lick. "Maybe I can solve your big problem when we get back to our hotel suite." Then, without warning, a sharp pang shoots through my abdomen. Grimacing, I put my free hand to my tummy.

Alarm washes over Finn's handsome face. "Skye, what's wrong?"

I twitch a pained smile. "The baby... it just kicked! Feel!" I place Finn's hand on my swollen belly. The baby, a miracle child like Maddie, kicks again.

Finn's face lights up. "Holy moly! I felt it!" He laughs. "It kicks like a girl!"

I laugh back. I know for sure it's a boy. I accidentally found out when I went for my last ultrasound before leaving for Paris, but didn't tell Finn. He's due in three months. And in three months someone I know is going to be sporting another tattoo on their ass. *Wink* It's not me!

My eyes return to my darling Maddie, skipping ahead of us and licking her ice cream cone. She's still too young to understand my complicated story. One day, when she's older, I will tell it to her. I want her to know what happened to me and how a brave group of magnificent women bound together to stand up against adversity. To stand up for themselves. And I will also tell Emmet, her future brother, and raise them both to respect their co-workers and peers—women and men alike of all races and genders—and never turn a blind eye to corruption and injustice. To tyrants and victims, secrets and lies.

Time's up. We no longer have to endure silence. But the fight for our rights is not over. There will always be the next monster, who will try to abuse us. Ready to strip away our dignity and confiscate our souls.

Wherever there's a story, I'll be there. Dig deep, then dig deeper. I will never stop uncovering the truth. It's the most powerful tool we have.