Face-Slapping12 min read
Eighteen Agreements and a Thousand Small Lies
ButterPicks14 views
I woke up to beeping monitors and white that smelled like hospitals and lies.
"Wake up, Gwen, are you okay?" Connie's voice fluttered like a small, nervous bird.
"I feel like someone smashed a drum inside my head," I said.
"You're pale. Someone call the doctor!" she cried.
The doctor said, "We think it's a concussion. Some memories may be blurred."
I let the words roll over me like cold water and then, like a needle, the memory of a list stabbed through all the fog: eighteen divorce agreements I had mailed last month. Eighteen. I had meant to stop the marriage cleanly. I had meant to end a contract dressed as a life. I blinked and then I blinked again.
"Did he know?" I asked Connie.
"You told him," she said quickly. "Emilio called. He’s on his way."
When Emilio came into the room, he lifted his cap. The light caught his jaw and I felt the old, hot ache. He wore a costume from the shoot, a simple jacket that made him look like an old film star: lean, sharp, like someone carved from marble. He had always been able to walk into a room and make time stop.
He stood by my bed, quiet as a lake. I saw it then, the way he always had the patience of someone who never expected life to go wrong.
"Emilio," I said. "I… I can't remember things."
He frowned. "What don't you remember?"
I hugged his waist without thinking. "You're here. Don't go."
Emilio's hands were steady. He helped me up. "You should rest."
"Wait." I blinked down at him. "Do you remember the packages I sent? The papers?"
He looked surprised, then confused. "Packages? What packages?"
"Divorces," I said. The words tasted dangerous. "Eighteen."
Emilio's face tightened. "You sent divorce agreements?"
"Yes," I whispered. "For months. I put them in envelopes and labeled them like gifts and told myself I was being practical. I thought... I thought I hated you. I was angry then."
He turned his face away. "We were never close," he said.
"We were," I said. "Just... not the way you wanted and not the way I wanted. But right now I remember that I loved you in my own clumsy, loud way."
Connie sniffed and scrolled something on her phone. "Gwen, you said someone pushed you. The car—" Her face went white. "Your father is calling."
Paul Feng's voice thundered on the other end. "One hour. Be home or you fly to Africa in disgrace."
I laughed because my chest hurt. "Dad."
Connie hugged my hand. "I told Emilio. He rushed back."
He stood there in his costume and somehow, in that small sterile room, I knew the rest of my life had to be different.
Two days later I insisted on visiting the shoot. I wanted to see him not through filters or rumors but in stitches, in sweat, real and dull and human. The set smelled like dust and coffee, like the kind of acting everyone pretended was effortless.
"Where is Emilio?" I asked the director.
"In makeup," someone said. "But he's in wardrobe. He'll be back."
"And Karl?" I asked — Karl Ferguson, the man our papers had handed money to, the actor I had believed was a hero but who had been a cutthroat snake in a man's costume.
"Karl is here," the assistant said. Her eyes widened when she saw me. "You came, Miss Gwen."
Karl's smile was practiced charm. The kind that had swallowed a thousand empty promises. He walked toward me, smooth as oil.
"Miss Gwen," he said. "You should sit down. You look—"
"I look fine," I cut in. "Karl, stay away from me."
He blinked. "Why? I thought you supported me."
"I sent eighteen divorce agreements last month," I told him and watched his face try to find ground.
"You—" he started.
"Don't play dumb," I said. "You love money more than you love applause. You used me."
He reddened. He opened his mouth and closed it. There were people around, crew watching, phones glinting.
"Miss Gwen," Karl said, "that's a bit strong."
"Strong enough," I said. "You used other people to get ahead. You spread lies about Emilio and you lied to my father."
He tried to step forward. "Stop it. You're delusional."
At that exact moment, a small snack packet flew through the air and landed on his perfect face with a wet slap. Everyone gasped.
"Who—?" Karl smeared a chip off his cheek. He looked furious. "Who threw that?"
Connie stood, wide-eyed. "I didn't—"
"Emilio?" someone whispered.
Karl's face went through a slow, comic color shift: surprise, mockery, anger, denial. Then he smirked, like he always returned to the part he played: the injured prince.
"You want to make a scene?" he said. "Come on, Gwen, let's talk privately."
"Not today, Karl," I said. "Not ever."
Emilio arrived then. He had come straight from the set, still carrying the last of the makeup on his wrists. He studied Karl like a man reading a bad script.
Karl tried to be clever. "Ah, Emilio. So we meet. If I didn't know better, I'd think she prefers me to you."
Emilio's voice cut through like a knife. "You ought to learn what respect is."
Karl laughed. "Respect? You married up, Emilio. Don't pretend this is about respect."
I watched them stand like two testy old dogs, both too proud to yield. Then, slow as a camera zoom, Karl let loose with a private truth meant to wound the way only scum know how.
"Your little wife?" Karl said loud enough for three dozen people to hear. "She thinks she saved your career. She bankrolled me. She backed the wrong horse."
I saw the crew look at their phones. I saw heads turn. One man laughed. Another started a video.
"Is that true?" someone yelled.
"Is it true, Gwen?" Karl said with a sneer. "Tell them. Admit you were trying to buy a role."
I looked at Emilio. His face had gone entirely impassive. He didn't speak. He watched as though cataloging the damage.
"No," I said. "I invested in many things. I am not a fool to call gifts what they were. I paid for the company they built. But I did not buy my husband. Apparently, some people think men can be purchased like toys. We are not their toys."
"You're delusional," Karl spat. "You're just another rich girl with poor taste."
Someone filmed the conversation and posted it. Comments flooded in like flies. The rumor mill stood up.
I had been quiet, pinned between my past schemes and my present honesty. I had been the woman who mailed divorces and the woman who now wanted to fix what she had burned. I decided I would stop playing small.
"Remember those eighteen papers?" I asked, voice low. "They were meant to be for you."
Karl's smile got wider. "For me? What kind of stunt—"
"For you to sign," I said. "So you could end this farce and pretend that you had no part in making us miserable."
His smile faltered. "You expect me to sign away all that I—"
I lifted my hand and waved it like a conductor. "Sign them. Put your name on one. Tell everyone you were honest. Drop the charade. Or I'll do what I always do: I will open every envelope and show the world who you really are."
Karl's face learned, in the space of a heartbeat, the slow fall from actor to animal. He tried to laugh. "You can't be serious."
"I am entirely serious," I said. "Sign one. Or the next post goes out with your messages to Antonella."
He went white. He reached for his phone.
"Antonella?" someone whispered.
Antonella Gauthier blinked then, the woman who had been sweet as sugar and sharp as a tack. Her smile was a mask that had slipped. She stepped forward in stilettos that clicked like accusation.
"Karl, are you telling the truth?" she said, voice small.
"No—" Karl began. "It's out of context—"
He tried to snatch his phone but a hundred phones were already pointed his way. Fingers were recording, feeds were live. The air tightened like a drum.
"Everybody stop," Emilio said quietly. "Let's go to the company hall. We'll make this public. We'll clear it once and for all."
He looked at me. "Are you okay?"
"I am," I lied. "But I want the truth."
We moved. Lights flashed. Reporters, the crew, strangers who loved scandal followed us toward the company auditorium. Emilio and I walked side by side. I felt strange: part of me wanted to hide in his coat, and part of me wanted to stand on the stage and shout until my voice broke.
At the auditorium, the board of GK Entertainment had been alerted. Cameras were set. Chairs filled. I stepped onto the stage and felt the floor steady beneath my feet. Everything that had been simmering would either boil over or cool to ashes.
"Good afternoon," Emilio said into the microphone. "We will address certain rumors tonight."
"Emilio," Karl said from the front row, voice oily. "Don't make this into a circus."
"It's not a circus," I said into the microphone. "It's a reckoning."
I took the envelopes from my bag. They folded in my hands like brittle leaves. I hadn't meant for this to become public, but fate makes spectacles of us.
"These are copies of eighteen divorce agreements," I told the room. "I mailed them. I meant to keep myself from doing more harm. I didn't think—"
"You're bragging?" Karl yelled.
"No," I said. "I'm admitting. And I'm giving people a choice."
I reached for Karl's hand. He looked at me as if I had lost my mind.
"Sign," I said simply. "Sign one, right here, that you never took advantage of anyone from my family. Sign it, and I will keep the rest private."
He laughed like a chuckle of snakes. "You think I'll sign? Why would I sign my own death warrant?"
"Because the other option is worse," I said. "Because I have recorded messages. Because I have receipts. And because I don't want to be the woman who keeps quiet while men do ugly things."
The room breathed. It watched. Antonella moved her hand to her mouth. Her mascara ran in the bright lights. It was a small thing, but the image of her crying in a gown would be in every phone.
Karl looked around at faces—fans, production managers, investors. The ripple of his panic was a story unto itself. He reached for the pen. He said, "I won't sign something I haven't done."
"Then I will play a tape." I held up my phone. "This shows messages you sent Antonella."
He turned pallid. "That's staged."
"You made a lot of choices," Emilio said. His voice had gone hard as a blade. "And now you will own them."
I played the tape. Karl's voice, casual and cruel, filled the auditorium. "Keep him sweet," he said, referencing money and promises. "When I have enough, I will take my role and leave."
The room was quiet. Somewhere a camera fed the sound live. The messages were short, so the applause that came after was not for Karl but for exposure itself. Karl's smile collapsed. He became less and less like an actor and more and more like a frightened animal.
"I admitted I mailed divorce agreements," I said. "But I will not be the only one to carry shame alone. Karl, Antonella, you had a role in destroying a company, in taking advantage of trust and mixing business with ugly lies. You will answer in front of everyone."
He rose. "This is libel. You can't use private messages."
"Then stop denying the rest," I said. "Stop pretending you are the injured party."
I turned the phone, and there were photos. There were emails. There were timestamped transfers and words about how people were wallets, and how an industry ran by men and money could be manipulated. Karl's face sank. He stood at the podium, breathless.
"I will say it one last time," Emilio said. "Karl Ferguson and Antonella Gauthier conspired to take assets from GK, to create false public relations stories that hurt our company's reputation. We have the accounts and the contracts. We will press charges."
Gasps went through the room. Some cheered. Some recorded. A woman started to clap. A man laughed nervously. The live feed surged.
Karl's reaction changed like a bad weather forecast. First he was defiant. Then he tried to deny. Then his face cracked. "No—no, that's not how—"
Antonella's cheeks flushed; she was no longer glossy; her makeup was running. "I didn't mean for—"
"Don't you dare play the victim," I said, voice cold. "You wanted a role. You wanted money. You took advantage."
He tried to reach for Antonella's hand. She stepped back. Denial turned to panic. He swallowed. His voice went thin. "Please—"
There it was: the public collapse. The crowd leaned forward to watch moral physics play out. Cameras zoomed. A hundred phones recorded.
"Please," Karl begged. "I didn't mean—"
"No one cares about you meaning it," someone shouted. "Own it."
He slumped into a chair like a puppet cut from strings. His limbs went slack.
Antonella pressed her forehead to her palms. "I was afraid," she whispered. "I thought it would make me powerful."
"Power built on theft is not power," I said. "It's theft."
The company's legal counsel came forward. "We will pause all projects involving these people. We will investigate. The board will review all contracts."
"Do it now," I said.
Karl stood, hands trembling. "Please," he said. "I will apologize. I will pay. No—"
"It is too late for private apologies," I said. "This is public. You built a house of lies in public. You will answer publicly."
He crumpled. He tried to bargain. He tried to deny. Then, in a final gesture that made the room shift, he fell to his knees.
"Please," he said, voice breaking, eyes leaking something ugly and human. "Please, forgive me."
Phones flew up. People recorded. Reporters whispered. Cameras captured his knees on the carpet. Antonella turned to run, but a stern voice stopped her.
"Stay," the counsel said.
She stood still, frozen, and then the worst part came: the crowd reacted not just with outrage but with ritual. They wanted a reckoning, a punishment that felt like justice.
A shareholder who had been harmed stood up. "You betrayed trust," he said. "You took money and made statements. You hurt livelihoods. You deserve restitution. You deserve public apology."
Karl's voice cracked to a whisper. "I will pay. I will pay back. I will do anything."
The board called in security and legal, and the couple were escorted from the stage to a temporary room. But the moment had been captured. The tapes and files were sent to authorities. Newsrooms lit up. Within hours the footage was everywhere.
I left the stage with Emilio at my side. "You did well," he said quietly. "You could have kept quiet."
"I wasn't built for quiet," I said.
"Still," he said, "you could have handled it differently."
"Maybe," I conceded. "But it had to be done."
Weeks later, the punishment continued. At the annual charity gala—where hundreds gathered: board members, fans, reporters, investors—Emilio insisted I attend in a calm voice.
"You don't have to go," he told me.
"I will go," I said. "If they watch me in public, I want them to also see the ones who did damage punished."
The ballroom glittered. Chandeliers like stars hung above. People whispered when we entered.
On the stage, the host called for attention. "Tonight we will honor transparency," she announced. "Before we begin, the board has a statement."
I felt the room tighten like a fist.
"Mr. Ferguson and Ms. Gauthier have been requested to attend to answer questions regarding recent events," the chairman said. "We will hear the testimony of those affected."
Karl and Antonella were brought in under security. Karl’s hair clung to his forehead. He had tried to compose himself but shame had a way of making every movement clumsy. Reporters crowded the front rows. Phones were out. A hundred eyes bore into the pair.
"Please," Antonella said in a small voice. "We can talk—"
"No," a former employee said, stepping forward. "You used us. You stole from our families."
"Have you anything to say?" the chairman asked Karl, calmly, like a judge.
Karl tried to speak. He started with a practiced apology. Then the torrent came. Witnesses read messages. A screen behind him showed the transfers and contracts. A montage of evidence. Someone had made a timeline and the timeline moved like a scythe.
Karl's expression moved from smug to frightened to desperate. He attempted denial. He attempted to charm a woman in the crowd into mercy. He went through the scripted steps: shock, denial, bargaining.
Then the chairman spoke, and his voice was steady with the weight of people who had been wronged.
"You were entrusted with privilege," he said. "You betrayed it."
The crowd hissed and clapped. People took photos and videos. Sponsors stood up and left. The humiliation was not only words.
And then we reached the finale: restitution.
"You will kneel," the chairman said. "You will apologize there, publicly, on this stage, before the people you've hurt."
Karl's knees trembled. He did not protest. He sank to his knees on the polished floor. Antonella followed, eyes red.
"Please," Karl said. "I ask for forgiveness."
"Say it," a woman whose family had been harmed demanded. "Say to our faces."
He lifted his head. His voice cracked. "I'm sorry," he said. "I am sorry. I was greedy. I am sorry."
"Look at me," she said. "Say my name."
"Karl looked at her, voice small. "Ms. Navarro? I'm sorry."
The woman's reply was a cold, low sound and she did not accept anything as simple as words. "Apology doesn't pay back my father," she said. "Repayment does. Return what you took."
Security recorded each second. Cameras closed in on his shoes, his face, his knees. He looked small and exposed in a way no audition could ever achieve.
He tried to stand and plead, but murmurs and jeers rose like surf. Phones licked the scene. The crowd was not cruel—no, they were hungry for the truth; they wanted to see the fall that matched the crime.
Eventually, the couple were escorted out. They would later face legal consequences: investigations, contract cancellations, civil suits. But of all punishments, the public one was deliciously final. It taught a lesson beyond law: that in public life, the court of people would judge the cowardly harshly.
I sat watching with Emilio beside me. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and I rested my head on it.
"Good," I said softly.
He squeezed my hand. "You did the right thing."
"Maybe," I said. "But I am tired. I want quieter days."
"Then we'll make quieter days," he promised.
After that, my life changed like a slow sunrise. The company reclaimed itself. Emilio's team stabilized. I stopped mailing papers and started changing things from inside: reorganizing projects, reviewing contracts, and when necessary, ejecting the rot. My father scolded me, then smiled. "Girl, you surprised me," he said. "You are not such a fool."
One night, months later, I found an envelope among my old things. It was worn at the edges. Inside was one of the eighteen agreements, unsigned. I smiled and folded it twice, like a paper talisman. I kept that paper in my drawer for many reasons: to remind me of the person I had been, and of the person I could be.
"Do you ever regret it?" Connie asked me one time.
"Regret?" I tapped the drawer. "I regret some of the ways I loved. I regret being blind when it mattered. But not this. Not the truth."
Emilio looked at me over his book. "You changed things. You did not destroy them."
I shut my eyes. The sea outside our window was quiet. The world still liked spectacle, but spectacle had a new story to tell now. People who lied had to stand and answer. People who loved someone had to learn how to be better.
"Remember the eighteen?" I said, and he smiled.
"Remember," he said.
I took the little paper from the drawer once more. The ink had faded, but the crease where I had held it tight was deep. I pressed the paper to my heart and whispered, "This is for me."
"Goodnight," Emilio said.
"Goodnight," I answered. The house hummed. I put the paper back and locked the drawer.
I slept, finally, with a quieter heart.
The End
— Thank you for reading —