Episode 13
1238 Words
THE CASE AGAINST GOLDEN BOY
The Manhattan SVU office wasn’t what Ava expected.
No flickering lights or drama-soaked interrogation rooms like in TV shows. Just sterile hallways, silent elevators, and a woman at the front desk with kind eyes and a tired smile.
Detective Peters met her in the lobby. Tall, blunt, with a voice like gravel and the presence of someone who’d seen too much to be easily impressed.
“Ava Sinclair?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Follow me.”
She walked behind him, heels clicking too loud against linoleum, nerves dancing like static beneath her skin. Not fear. Not anymore. But adrenaline. Purpose.
They stepped into a small room. No windows. Two chairs. A recorder on the table. A legal pad. A box of tissues she refused to need.
Detective Peters gestured for her to sit. “This conversation is confidential and voluntary. You can stop at any time. Understood?”
“Understood,” Ava replied.
He pressed record.
“Let’s begin.”
It took two hours.
Two hours of naming things she’d buried in metaphors and art and blog posts. The time Cole had locked her out in the rain for “being dramatic.” The time he pressured her into staying quiet when she found texts from three other women. The time he told her, calmly, that if she ever left him, no one else would want her.
She handed over Delilah’s flash drive.
Showed the screenshots.
The recordings.
The witnesses.
Detective Peters said little, only pausing to clarify dates or names.
When Ava finally finished, he leaned back and exhaled. “You’re not the only one who’s come forward.”
Ava blinked. “Really?”
“A couple of women from his past. And two others who saw your blog and recognized the pattern. We’re building a case. It won’t be fast. But it’s moving.”
Ava’s chest tightened. “Will he be arrested?”
Peters didn’t sugarcoat. “Eventually. If we get enough. But even without cuffs, your voice—what you’ve done—has power. You’ve started something.”
Ava left the precinct lighter than she’d arrived.
Not healed.
But whole.
That night, she met Luca at Whiskey and Bloom, the low-lit cocktail bar where they’d first flirted over too many negronis and not enough boundaries.
He was behind the bar, spinning a bottle and flashing that golden-retriever grin when he saw her.
“Ms. Sinclair,” he teased, “come to intoxicate me again?”
She slid onto a stool. “I’ve had a long day. Make it dirty.”
He raised a brow. “Your martini or your conversation?”
Ava smirked. “Surprise me.”
He poured, stirred, slid the drink across to her like a ritual.
Then leaned in. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Better than okay.”
He came around the bar, took her hand, and led her to the rooftop patio above. No one else was there—just fairy lights, a jazz playlist, and the city spread out like a secret.
“I talked to the police,” she said, settling beside him on a bench.
Luca stiffened, then reached for her hand. “That’s huge.”
“It was hard. But it felt... important. Bigger than me.”
“It is bigger than you. But that doesn’t make your part any less heroic.”
She turned to him, touched his face. “Thank you. For believing me. Always.”
He leaned in, brushing his lips over hers. “Always.”
The next morning, she woke to a call from Natalie.
“Turn on the news.”
Ava rubbed sleep from her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Cole. He’s trending. Not in a good way.”
Ava grabbed her laptop. Typed in his name.
“Ex-Tech Star Accused of Coercive Abuse by Multiple Women”
“New Evidence Surfaces in Cole Westbrook Allegations”
“The Man Behind the Mask: Inside the Fall of a Startup Golden Boy”
One headline made her pause:
“Blog Post That Sparked a Movement: Ava Sinclair’s Story”
She clicked.
There it was—her words. Her blog. Her story. Quoted, cited, respected.
For once, not used against her.
And below the article, a statement from Cole’s PR team:
"Mr. Westbrook categorically denies these allegations and plans to pursue legal action for defamation."
Ava rolled her eyes.
Of course he would.
But for the first time, his defense sounded defensive. Hollow.
And the world was listening.
Three days later, Ava received an anonymous package.
No return address.
Inside: a thick yellow envelope.
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a stack of photos.
Printed screenshots. A journal entry. A handwritten note.
“He did the same thing to me. I thought I was alone. I’m not ready to come forward yet—but thank you. Please keep going.”
There was no name.
No contact info.
But it didn’t matter.
Ava held the envelope like a torch.
Because this was her why.
This was the ripple effect.
That week, Ava painted nonstop.
Canvases of bruised colors and burning gold. Of wolves in silk ties. Of women rising from ash with lipstick smudged and eyes on fire.
Natalie visited one night, wine in hand.
“These are your best yet.”
“They’re my truest.”
“You going to sell them?”
Ava grinned. “I’m going to hang them in the gallery with a sign that says: Not For Sale. But For Survival.”
Natalie raised her glass. “To that.”
And then Cole showed up.
On a Wednesday.
At her gallery.
In a suit that didn’t shine like it used to and eyes that twitched with rage barely masked by charm.
Ava froze when she saw him.
So did Luca, who stepped between them.
But Ava raised a hand.
“It’s fine.”
Cole smirked. “Can we talk?”
“You can say what you want here.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re ruining my life.”
Ava crossed her arms. “No. You ruined your life. I just stopped helping you hide it.”
“You twisted everything.”
“No. I untwisted it.”
He stepped closer. “I could sue you.”
“You can try. But that won’t erase the truth. And it won’t make me afraid of you again.”
They locked eyes.
And for the first time, he looked small.
She turned and walked away.
Luca followed.
Behind them, Cole stood alone, the mask slipping.
The gallery’s next event was titled: “What He Didn’t Break.”
It featured survivors.
Art.
Readings.
Healing.
Ava took the mic at the end, voice steady:
“I used to be afraid of what people would think if they knew the truth. Now I know that truth is how we survive. So if you’ve ever been silenced, gaslit, shamed—I see you. And I believe you. The pain doesn’t define us. What we do with it does.”
The applause was thunder.
Luca kissed her forehead afterward. “You’re unstoppable.”
Ava smiled.
“Not unstoppable. Just unafraid.”
Back at home, she curled up on the couch, sketchbook in her lap.
She drew herself.
But not how she used to be.
Not crying. Not broken.
She drew herself standing in the storm, smiling.
With wild hair.
A crown of flames.
And Cole?
Nowhere in sight.
- Writer
