Chapter 2 - Eight Million Views
By sunrise, the video had been viewed 8.4 million times.
Nia knew because strangers kept telling her.
She had turned Malik’s phone off before midnight, but she had forgotten her own.
At 5:17 a.m., it buzzed against the kitchen counter.
At 5:19, again.
Then continuously.
Nia finally muted it.
Malik sat at the breakfast table wearing dinosaur pajamas, staring into a bowl of cereal he had not touched.
“You’re staying home today,” Nia said.
He shrugged.
“Okay.”
That frightened her more than tears would have.
Malik loved school.
“What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
“Malik.”
He pushed one cereal flake beneath the milk.
“Everybody saw me.”
Nia sat beside him.
“Everybody saw what he did.”
“They saw me almost cry.”
“You were embarrassed.”
“I look weak.”
“No.”
Malik looked up.
“You said everybody would forget.”
Nia had said that in the car.
She had believed it.
Now every morning entertainment program in America appeared to be replaying the moment.
Not the shove itself repeatedly—several networks blurred Malik’s face out of concern for his age—but enough footage existed online that the scene had already become unavoidable.
Nia reached for his hand.
“Being hurt doesn’t make you weak.”
He pulled away.
Not angrily.
Quietly.
That hurt more.
Across Los Angeles, Christopher Hale entered Meridian Pictures through the underground parking garage.
Daniel Reed was waiting inside the elevator lobby.
Christopher removed his sunglasses.
“You look terrible.”
Daniel stared at him.
“You assaulted a ten-year-old in front of forty phones.”
“I pushed him back.”
“You touched a child on camera.”
“He rushed me.”
Daniel’s eyes hardened.
“Do not say that again.”
Christopher frowned.
“Why?”
“Because the video clearly shows that he didn’t.”
The elevator opened.
Christopher walked inside.
Daniel followed.
“What does the studio want?”
“They’ve called an emergency meeting.”
“Fine.”
“It isn’t fine.”
“Daniel.”
“What?”
Christopher leaned closer.
“This blows over.”
Daniel looked at the numbers on the elevator display.
“I have represented you for seventeen years.”
“And?”
“And this is the first time I’m telling you that I don’t know whether it will.”
The conference room on Meridian’s fourteenth floor contained no pastries, bottled juice or assistants making small talk.
Only lawyers.
That told Christopher everything.
Victoria Shaw, Meridian’s president of production, sat at the far end of the table.
She was sixty-one, silver-haired, disciplined and famous inside Hollywood for never wasting a sentence.
“Sit.”
Christopher did.
Victoria slid a tablet toward him.
The paused frame showed Christopher’s hand against Malik’s arm.
Christopher pushed the device back.
“I’ve seen it.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m asking because your first statement draft says the child behaved aggressively.”
Daniel closed his eyes.
Christopher turned toward him.
“You showed them?”
“I stopped distribution.”
Victoria leaned forward.
“Christopher, the premiere security footage is being reviewed. We have multiple eyewitnesses. If your public statement contradicts video evidence, this becomes worse.”
“It was chaotic.”
“No,” Victoria said. “It was visible.”
Christopher’s nostrils flared.
“What exactly do you want?”
“The truth.”
He laughed once.
“This from Meridian?”
The room changed.
Daniel looked toward Victoria.
She did not blink.
“What does that mean?”
Christopher leaned back.
“It means nobody here built this company on truth.”
Victoria’s expression cooled.
“Careful.”
Christopher smiled.
Daniel recognized that smile.
It was the expression Christopher wore just before doing something reckless.
Christopher tapped the table.
“You’ve cleaned up worse.”
A Meridian attorney spoke.
“We are discussing last night.”
“I’m discussing precedent.”
Victoria stood.
“The studio is suspending your promotional appearances for seventy-two hours while we investigate.”
Christopher’s smile vanished.
“You can’t do that.”
“We just did.”
“My contract—”
“Contains conduct provisions.”
“You need me.”
Victoria stared at him.
“We need the film.”
Christopher rose.
“I am the film.”
Daniel did not move.
Christopher looked at him.
“You coming?”
“In a minute.”
Christopher walked out.
The door shut.
Victoria remained standing.
Then she looked at Daniel.
“What was he talking about?”
Daniel’s face revealed nothing.
“Christopher says things when he’s angry.”
Victoria studied him.
“You’ve cleaned up his crises for seventeen years.”
“That’s my job.”
“Has anything like this happened before?”
Daniel looked toward the closed door.
A memory moved behind his eyes.
Chicago.
A hotel corridor.
A frightened production assistant.
An internal complaint that disappeared after forty-eight hours.
Then Atlanta.
A charity event.
A Black photographer thrown out after Christopher accused him of stealing equipment that belonged to him.
Daniel swallowed.
Victoria noticed.
“Daniel.”
He stood.
“I should check on my client.”
Victoria’s voice stopped him before he reached the door.
“If there is anything this company does not know about, now would be the time.”
Daniel turned.
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For the first time in seventeen years, loyalty felt less like a profession.
It felt like evidence.
