I play it back twice. It's good. Honest and sharp and vulnerable in equal measure. The kind of statement that could shift public opinion if it lands right.
Or destroy what's left of my reputation if it doesn't.
I save the file but don't upload it. Not yet. Something holds me back with instinct or fear or the last shred of self-preservation whispering that once I press send, there's no taking it back.
Instead, I spend the afternoon drafting my official withdrawal from the show. Not the angry version or the professional version. Something in between.
I'm withdrawing because I can't separate my authentic self from the persona the show requires. I thought I could. I was wrong.
Thank you for the opportunity. I'm sorry it ended this way.
Short. True. Doesn't assign blame or beg for understanding.
I save it in the same folder as the video. Two paths forward, neither of them good.
By evening, I've convinced myself that quitting is the only rational choice. The bakery is hemorrhaging clients. My reputation is shredded. Korgan isn't calling. Staying on the show will only prolong the agony, give them more footage to twist into weapons.
Better to cut losses now. Rebuild in private. Disappear until the internet finds a new target.
I'm about to hit send on the withdrawal letter when my phone vibrates.
Unknown number. I almost ignore it as another journalist fishing for tears, another troll who found my personal cell.
But something makes me answer.
"Trinity Lewis?"
"Who's asking?"
"Someone who thinks you got screwed." Male voice, young, nervous. "I work in editing for the show. Well, worked. They fired me yesterday."
My pulse kicks. "Why?"
"Because I wouldn't cut footage the way they wanted. Because I told them manufacturing evidence crossed a line."
"What evidence?"
"Those phone calls with your friend. The ones they leaked."
I grip the phone tighter. "What about them?"
"They're real recordings, but they're from different conversations spliced together. You did say those things, but not in the same call, not with the same meaning. They built a narrative out of fragments."
The room tilts. "Can you prove it?"
"I have the original timestamps. The raw files before editing. It's all here."
"Why are you telling me this?"
He hesitates. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter.
"Because I have a sister your age. She runs a coffee shop in Portland, barely scraping by. When I saw what they did to you, I kept thinking about what it would do to her if someone weaponized her stress, her desperation. How easy it would be to make her look like a monster for trying to survive."
Something warm and sharp lodges in my throat. Hope feels dangerous right now, but I can't help it.
"What do you want in return?"
"Nothing. Just tell the truth. Don't let them get away with this."
