Chapter 110 *
Scarlett's POV
I was halfway through a medical textbook when my phone started buzzing.
My first thought was that someone had dug up more fake evidence. More fabricated screenshots. More lies.
I almost set the phone back down. Almost ignored it completely.
But something made me open X instead.
The trending page loaded.
#MadisonParkExposed was number two. Climbing fast.
I stared at the screen. Blinked twice. Read it again.
What the hell?
I clicked on the hashtag.
The top tweet had sixty thousand retweets. Posted thirty minutes ago.
@AnonymousJustice: THREAD: Madison Park hired reputation management firms to destroy Scarlett Romano's life. Here's the proof. 🧵
I scrolled down. My heart was pounding.
Screenshot after screenshot. Text messages. Full conversations. Nothing cropped. Nothing taken out of context.
Madison discussing budgets. Madison laughing about my humiliation. Madison instructing her hired firms to "bury her so deep she never crawls out."
I kept scrolling. Couldn't stop myself. Then I saw another hashtag trending.
#MadisonParkIsACriminal
I clicked on it.
More evidence. This time from Madison's past. High school. College. Screenshots from former classmates.
Then I saw a photo. A young woman's face. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying.
I read the entire thread. My hands were shaking by the end.
This wasn't just about me anymore. Years of abuse. Years of using money and privilege to destroy anyone who got in her way.
More victims were coming forward. Every few minutes. New stories. New evidence. New pain.
@FormerClassmate2019: Madison Park locked me in a bathroom for 6 hours during senior year because I rejected her friend's advances. School covered it up. My parents took a settlement. I've had PTSD ever since.
@JusticeForAll2026: She hired people to vandalize my car. Sent death threats to my family. All because I got a scholarship she wanted. I have the police reports. I have everything.
I scrolled through tweet after tweet. My vision was blurring slightly.
These people. These victims. They'd been suffering in silence for years.
And Madison had gotten away with it. Every single time.
Until now.
The anger hit me then. My hands curl into fists.
That girl who couldn't have children. She was sixteen. Sixteen years old.
What Madison did to her was unforgivable.
My throat felt tight. I had to swallow hard.
I'd been prepared to handle my own situation. I'd gathered evidence. I'd waited for the right moment. I'd planned my counterattack carefully.
But this? This was so much bigger than me.
I kept scrolling. The comments were getting more intense.
@ActivistNYC: This is why we need to eat the rich. This is EXACTLY why.
@WorkingClassHero: Another trust fund kid using daddy's money to escape justice. I'm so tired of this system.
@SocialJusticeWarrior: She literally tried to ruin someone's life for FUN. For ENTERTAINMENT. What kind of person does that?
The anger in these comments was real. Visceral. This wasn't just about me anymore. This had become about class. About privilege. About justice.
Someone posted a comparison photo. Madison at a charity gala. Designer gown. Diamonds. Champagne in her hand.
Next to it was one of my construction site photos. Sixteen years old. Dirt on my face. Safety vest. Sledgehammer.
The caption read: "One of these women worked 12-hour shifts to survive. The other spent a million dollars trying to destroy her for fun. America in 2026."
It had two hundred thousand likes in thirty minutes.
I set the phone down. Stood up. Started pacing.
My brain was working fast. Too fast.
Someone had leaked this. Someone with serious resources. Someone who had access to Madison's private communications. Her bank records. Her entire digital footprint.
This level of coordination didn't happen by accident.
I picked up my phone again. Opened my secure messaging app. The one I used for Sable business.
Scrolled through my contacts. Found the one I needed.
Typed out a message.
"Did you do this?"
The response came back in seconds.
"Do what?"
I sent him the trending hashtag. Waited.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then: "No. But whoever did has excellent taste in justice."
I stared at the message. My contact in the intelligence community would know if this was a professional job. Would recognize the fingerprints.
I typed back: "Professional?"
"Very. This level of access? This coordination? Not amateur hour."
My stomach did something weird. A flip. Or maybe a twist.
I walked over to my laptop. Opened it. Started digging deeper.
The evidence wasn't just comprehensive. It was surgical. Every piece of information released at exactly the right time. Every screenshot perfectly cropped to show maximum impact. Every audio clip edited to remove dead air but nothing else.
This was the work of someone who understood information warfare. Who knew how to control a narrative. Who had the resources to execute at scale.
I leaned back in my chair. Stared at the ceiling.
Only one person came to mind. Only one person had this level of capability. This level of motivation.
Damon.
My chest felt tight again. Different this time.
He'd done this. He had to have done this.
But why?
We weren't even really married. A contract based on a baby that didn't exist. He knew that now. Had known for days that I was never actually pregnant.
So why would he go to this much trouble? Invest these kinds of resources?
My chest felt tight. I forced myself to breathe.
Maybe he cared. Maybe his feelings weren't just about obligation or the baby that never was.
I shook my head.
No. Don't go there. Don't start imagining things that aren't real.
My phone buzzed again. More notifications.
I looked at the screen.
Legal firms were getting involved now. Pro bono offers. Multiple firms offering to represent the victims for free.
@TopLawFirmNYC: Our firm is offering pro bono representation to any victim of Madison Park's harassment campaign. We see clear cases of defamation, intentional infliction of emotional distress, and conspiracy. DM us.
@CivilRightsLawyer: This is not just bullying. This is organized criminal activity. We're building a case.
I set my phone down. Rubbed my eyes.
This was spiraling. Fast.
Madison's entire life was imploding in real time. Her reputation. Her social standing. Potentially her freedom if these criminal cases moved forward.
Madison had spent years destroying people. Using her money and connections to escape consequences. Thinking she was untouchable.
She'd earned this.
Every single bit of it.
I opened my encrypted files.
I had my own evidence. Things I'd collected over the past few weeks. Screenshots Madison's firms had been sloppy enough to leave traces of. Financial transactions that showed the money trail.
Some of it overlapped with what had already been released. But not all of it.
There were gaps. Missing pieces that would make the case even stronger.
I pulled up a burner email account. One I'd created months ago. Completely untraceable.
I typed a brief message.
"Additional evidence regarding Madison Park's systematic harassment campaign. Documents are authentic. Verify independently."
Added email addresses for three major news outlets. The New York Times. Washington Post. ProPublica.
I hit send.