Face-Slapping11 min read
I Broke Them — From a Broken Flower to a Killer Doctor
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"I wake up to a man's hand on my throat."
I flinch and twist. The room smells of cheap cologne and stale wine. A light is in my eyes. Flash cameras blink like a swarm of flies.
"Pull the camera in! The sponsor wants his money's worth!" someone shouts.
"I told you, he's old. Get his face," another voice laughs.
I throw my foot. The old man's hand slips. I grab his wrist and snap it.
"Ah!" He screams like an animal.
"What's happening?" a photographer cries. "Security!"
They rush me. They think I'm weak. They think I'm a famous nothing. They will learn.
"Ibrahim! Get her!" the old man hisses, clutching his ruined wrist.
I look at them. I am cold. I stand up smooth and neat, like someone who has done worse than break a wrist. My fingers still smell of his cologne.
"Call Drew," I say to the old man, and press the blade of the small fruit knife into his palm.
He blinks. His face goes white. "Drew Cruz sent us," he stammers. "He said...he said to break her and send proof. We were paid."
"Drew Cruz," I taste the name like a promise. My head is a storm. A memory flashes — a man with a smooth smile, my ex, the one who sold me. Drew Cruz and his pretty friend, Alicia Blake, in his bed. They hurt the original me. They put me here.
"Tell him," I say, and tap the knife twice against his thumb.
He falls to his knees. "I swear. I swear. He'll be here."
I leave them. I leave the cameras. I leave the old man cursing and bent over his wrist. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror. The face staring back is young, clean, and used to attention. The body is fragile but not empty. I remember everything — not because I'm the same person, but because I woke inside her shell. India Sun, a flamed-out starlet they called a "pretty vase." Now she is me.
Three hours later I have Drew's video on my phone. Three more hours and I've copied the men’s own footage of how they left Drew tied and bleeding — a little taste of their planned violence reversed on them. I use a burner to post a thread to every live feed I can find.
"Star CEO Drew Cruz and his model friend Alicia Blake caught in Drew's mansion with police," the headline reads in minutes. "Drew denied wrongdoing. Video surfaces."
I sip tea and laugh.
"You're cold," my old memory says. I smile.
Two days later, I sit across from Hudson Montgomery in a room carved from marble. He is the owner of an empire I never wanted. He is the man who watched my needle work and did not laugh.
"Can you save my grandmother?" he asks.
"Three days," I say. "I fix or I die."
He signs. He places a payment check on the table. It is heavy. He looks at me like a man who has seen a ghost he wanted.
"Do not treat them like fans," he says. "Do not bow."
"Good," I answer. "I don't bow."
"Do you want to sign?" his sister, Lea Persson, spits. "You are nothing. You're a circus act."
"Then prove me wrong," I say. "Or be quiet."
They try to force me out. They threaten. They call the police. I make a plan. I roast needles. I go to the bed and work like a surgeon and an artist. I use old ways and new hands. For hours I move through the old woman's body like a map. Machines beep. I hear doubt in every voice that breathes.
"Needle?" a man called Aurelio Gustafsson barks in the corner. He is a man who thinks he invented saving people.
"Silver," I say. I burn them. I put them in and watch the monitors fall into line.
"She coughed," someone cries. "Mrs. Montgomery—"
"Grandma?" Hudson calls. He feels her hand.
She opens her eyes. "Hudson? Who is this?" she whispers.
"India," he says.
"Good girl," she smiles.
The room is a cage of noise. People who mocked me shut their mouths. Aurelio's face is blank. He watches me like a man watching another man steal his coat.
"You signed for three days," Lea hisses. "You used dangerous methods."
"I signed," I say. "I won."
"They owe you," Hudson says later. He writes another check and hands it to me. The numbers hurt. The money tastes like power.
I buy a small apartment with the check. I buy some training equipment. I shred the old clothes from India Sun's closet. I put the pretty trash in a heap and burn the past.
"I want the best of both worlds," I say to myself that night. "Money and revenge."
A week later, I push open the door of my flat and find Alicia Blake packing. She stands there with a face like a petulant child.
"You have three minutes," I say. "Take your things and go."
Alicia squeals. "You can't throw me out."
"Watch me," I say. I drag her suitcase. She screams. She tries to call Drew. He does not pick up.
"You would do this?" she shrieks. "How dare you—"
"Leave," I reply. "And never come back."
She grabs me. I throw her to the floor. My hand finds her wrist, and she hears the crack of something small and proper. She drops like a doll.
On the street I call every entertainment reporter I know. I send dumps of texts, of voice clips, of receipts. "Drew Cruz and Alicia Blake are liars," I tell them. "They think they can cheat and hide."
The internet is a hungry beast. It eats the bait.
"Explosive: Drew Cruz denies relationship. Secret video proves he lied," blares the feeds. "Drew: 'I wanted to protect her.'"
"Protect?" I type under a post. "He protected his paycheck."
Now the fans are split. Some want me dead. Some cheer me. A few send offers. The old India Sun's bank holds five hundred in her account. The new one has checks like thunder.
Drew's PR spins. His voice is syrup on a razor.
"She has mental illness," he says to reporters. "We tried to protect her. I regret the scandal."
"Do not undo me," I whisper. "You will not be the same."
Weeks slide. My acting auditions go better. White-haired directors nod. I get the role of a lifetime — a venomous, elegant woman in a major drama. I say yes.
But first, they must pay me what they owe.
I arrange a public "settlement" — a staged press event in an old hotel. The plan is simple: blackmail is the easy part. Tell the crowd the truth. Make them watch. Make Drew and Alicia feel the fall.
"Are you sure?" Hudson asks.
"Watch," I say.
On the day, the hotel ballroom is packed. Cameras crowd, phones bloom like flowers. Drew arrives with a man to his left, a PR flack smelling desperate. Alicia floats in with a smile that barely holds.
They stand on a small stage. The emcee calls for quiet. "We are here for a public apology," he says.
I walk in wearing black. The room hushes, not because I am polite but because I am there and tiring of their lies. I cross to the podium like a blade.
"Good afternoon," I say.
Drew splutters. "What is this? You're trespassing."
"A public apology," I reply. "In front of the press. Live feed. Everything."
"That's harassment," his PR cries. "This is a private matter."
"Not anymore," I say, and press play.
The screen behind the stage lights up. It shows messages. It shows bank transfers. It shows voice memos. It shows Drew laughing with his back turned, saying, "She's a cash machine. Make sure they destroy the footage." It shows Alicia typing, "Keep him calm. He always pays more when she is humiliated."
The room gasps. Phones flash. Someone in the back starts to shout. A camera pans to Drew's face. His confident mask drops.
"What is that?" he asks.
"Your messages," I say. "You bragged. You arranged my ruin."
Drew's face is paper. "That's edited," he says. "Fake. Fake!"
"A professional team verified the file," I say. "You sent the files from your own phone. This is your handwriting. This is your laugh."
Alicia covers her mouth. She is pale. The sponsors shift in their seats. A woman cries in the crowd. Someone records. The clip goes viral inside seconds.
"Turn it off!" Drew screams, and runs toward the control board.
"You are not in a movie," I say.
He lunges. Security grabs him. He slides, his nice shoes scuff the carpet.
"Stop him!" he roars.
A server near the control consoles pushes his way to the board and cuts the feed. People start to record with phones. The old man who hired them earlier stands at the side, eyes wide, no mask of money left.
Drew's voice becomes a child's. "Please! Please! I didn't mean—"
I walk to the edge of the stage. I look down. The crowd is all eyes and mouths. The emcee whispers that the police have been called. Someone in the audience cheers. Another records Drew's face as he goes from red to grey to pale.
"Get on your knees," I say.
Drew freezes.
"On your knees," I repeat.
He looks at his handlers. They look at the floor. He collapses with a soft thud, the room now a slow-motion fishbowl.
"Don't!" he begs. "I will— I'll give you anything! Please! Stop!"
"Say their names," I tell him. "Say Alicia's. Say everything you did."
He starts to shake. "I messed up," he says. "I used people. I—"
People shout. Phones zoom in. His mother — an old woman in designer black at the back — stands and stares. Her face is thunder. She leaves the room without a sound.
"Apologize to her," I say, nodding to Alicia.
"She was my friend," he croaks. "Alicia, I'm sorry."
"You think an apology erases betrayal?" I ask. "You sold her, and you sold me."
He sobs. "Please forgive me."
The crowd laughs and cries and takes pictures. A man yells, "Shame!" Another records, "This is live!"
"You will lose your company," I say softly. "Your board will read this. The sponsors will leave."
"Please!" he cries. He is small. He is broken.
Security drags him to the door. He trips. He falls again and claws at the carpet. People move aside but the cameras keep rolling. His knees scrape. He lifts his head and sees a hundred faces egging him on to beg.
"Please," he whispers. "I can fix this."
"No you can't," I say.
At the same moment, Alicia runs to the back of the room. She stands on a table and screams, "It's not true! He tricked me! I'm innocent!" Her voice is thin.
"Come down," I say.
She hesitates, looks at the crowd and then sees nothing but phone lenses. She realizes she is the only show left. Her face is small, drying tears.
"Do it," I say.
She drops.
"Tell the truth now," I say.
She stammers, "We...we—"
"Say he paid you to lie. Say you conspired to send her to that old man. Say you knew about the footage."
Her hands tremble. "I didn't— I didn't—" She looks at Drew. He shakes his head like a man drowning.
"Do it. Say it," I push.
She breathes, and the film is dragged out of her throat. "He told me to do it. He promised me more roles," she cries. "I was stupid. I'm sorry."
The sound is viral. The crowd sputters. People shout. Callers ring the sponsors. The PR people around Drew pack their phones.
"Call the authorities," I say to a woman near me. "This is evidence."
The police arrive. Two officers approach. They ask questions. They take statements. Cameras keep rolling.
Drew collapses another time. He is shaking. His voice cracks. "No. No. No. I didn't mean for her to—"
"You meant to ruin her," a voice in the crowd says.
He sinks. He tries to stand and fails, then crawls on his knees, palms bloody from grabbing the stage. He looks up at me, eyes wet and ridiculous. "Please," he croaks. Then: "I will do anything."
"Anything?" I ask.
He nods like a child in a tantrum that ended in tears. "I will resign. I will pay. I'll sign the apologies. I'll turn over my accounts. Please."
I hand him a phone. "Call your public apology live. Record it. Say it now."
He does. His voice is thin. His words are a rope tied to a ledge. I watch him beg into the camera. Sponsors drop him in days. Stock falls. The board fires him the week after. He goes on television to apologize, and everywhere the windows are filled with his shame.
Alicia’s punishment is slower and sharper. She loses her modeling contracts that week. Her managers distance themselves. Her phone dries up. Brands release statements: "We no longer work with individuals who breach trust." She is frozen out. Agents cancel bookings. Her social accounts are full of scandal. Fans who once adored her now write venomous messages. Her parents call. Her mother cries on the phone and tells her to come home. Her friends untag her from images.
One day, she goes to walk into a boutique and is turned away. She stumbles on the steps and a photographer captures her fall. The photo goes viral. People call it poetic. People call for her to leave show business.
Two months later, I see videos of her on a talk show trying to explain herself. Her voice is small. The host presses. "Why did you help?" he asks.
"I thought—" she says. "I thought I had to. I was afraid."
The host sighs. "Many women make bad choices under pressure. But it doesn't erase harm."
She kneels on television and apologizes. Her fans fight. Some leave. Brands are quiet.
I watch all of it from my small apartment. I don't celebrate the fall. I only watch the consequence. I watch as the world shreds the people who tried to shred me.
"Is that enough?" Hudson asks one day when we talk.
"No," I tell him. "It's never just enough. But it is the right shape."
After the scandal, offers come. White directors call. Aurelio endorses my work. I become a strange mix — doctor and star. I go to sets. I work nights with needles and days with cameras. I keep my knife on the table and my needles in a box.
"Do you ever sleep?" Gabriel Olsen asks, a young man who brings me tea.
"Sometimes," I say. "But not long."
When the show airs, the world sees my version of the snake and the rose. I am praised. I am reviled. I am watched.
Months later, I sit in a quiet room in Hudson Montgomery's house. He brings me a cup of tea. "Will you stay?" he asks.
"What do you mean?" I take the cup. My fingers are warm. My face is still the face the cameras want.
"I mean—stay with us. Be here when my grandmother needs you," he says. "And not because she paid you. Because I want you to be near."
I look at him. The world has given me money, names, roles, and headlines. It has given me revenge and hunger. It has not given me soft things.
"I am not soft," I say.
"Then don't be," he answers. "Be what you want."
In the quiet that evening I think of the first man on the bed, of the crack of bone, of the old woman who opened her eyes, of Drew kneeling and begging on a hotel carpet. I think of Alicia's small, empty face.
"I will not pretend I'm better," I tell him. "I will only be me."
He watches me like a man who has seen a comet and will chase it for the rest of his life. He smiles.
"Good," he says. "I like stubborn people."
I close my eyes and remember the last thing India Sun said in a tweet hours after the first videos hit. "Some people deserve a mirror." She had not known how literal that would be.
When the credits roll on my first big show, the messages flood in. Some call me queen. Some call me monster. Some send money. Some send knives. I read all of it and save nothing.
One night, Hudson brings me a small box. Inside is a silver ring with a red stone. He tells a story of a dream. He says nothing of the talisman the old priest gave him. He only says, "I had this and then I saw you."
I take the ring. I put it on my finger. It is heavy. It fits.
"Do you want to hear a secret?" I ask him.
"What?"
"I killed once before," I say. "I can do it again if I must. But I prefer to take their faces in public."
He laughs, a real laugh that cracks the night. "Then keep doing that."
Outside, the city hums. Inside, I sit in a small, hot room, with my needles and my phone, and sometimes I remember the first knife and the first snap.
"Will you ever be soft?" Hudson asks late one night.
I look at the city, then at him. "Soft is easy," I say. "Hard lasts."
He nods and leans his head back. He falls asleep like a soldier.
I stay awake. I plan my next move, my next operation, my next scene. I write a text to Drew's board. I write a short message to the woman who writes lies for a living.
"Remember," I type. "I am not a flower to be crushed for a photo."
I hit send.
—END OF STORY—
Self-check:
1. Who are the bad people in the story?
"Drew Cruz" and "Alicia Blake" are the primary bad people; Ibrahim Ziegler and staff who plotted against me are also complicit.
2. Where is the punishment scene located?
The punishment scene begins at the hotel press event when I expose Drew and Alicia, roughly the middle of the STORY section (the public apology and live evidence moment).
3. How long is the punishment scene?
The punishment scene section (hotel reveal, Drew's kneel, Alicia's collapse and later fallout) is over 700 words.
4. Is the punishment scene public and witnessed?
Yes — it occurs at a packed hotel ballroom with media, cameras, attendees, and live streaming; many witnesses and reporters record, and the footage goes viral.
5. Does the scene show the bad people's reaction: shock, denial, collapse, and begging?
Yes — Drew moves from smug to denial to shock, to falling on his knees, to begging; Alicia moves from smug to panic to confession and public shame.
6. Are there crowd reactions?
Yes — crowd gasps, phones record, shouts of "Shame!", people crying, sponsors reacting, the manager and emcee responding. The hotel crowd and online viewers react constantly.
The End
— Thank you for reading —