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Hollywood Whore

The Glass Pedestal

The air in Oakley’s kitchen was thick with the kind of silence that felt like a physical weight, the kind that preceded a localized earthquake. Madeline sat on the edge of the marble island, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cabinet—a sharp, irritating sound that matched the ticking of the clock. She was staring at his phone, which sat face-up on the counter. A notification had lit up minutes ago. A name she didn't like. A girl from his past who seemed to have a sixth sense for when things were rocky between them.

"You’re doing it again," Oakley said, walking into the room with a towel draped over his shoulder, his chest bare and still damp from the shower. He didn't look at her; he went straight for the espresso machine. "You’re staring at my phone like you’re trying to set it on fire with your mind."

Madeline let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Maybe I’m just wondering why she thinks she can text you at three in the morning, Oakley. Or maybe I’m wondering why you haven't blocked her yet. It’s a simple concept for most people, but apparently, in West London, 'loyalty' has a different definition."

Oakley turned, his dark eyes narrowing. The calm, stoic mask he usually wore was beginning to crack, revealing the jagged edges of a temper he worked hard to suppress. "Don't start with that. We’ve been over this. It’s work, Maddy. She’s part of the creative team for the next drop. I don't tell you who to talk to when you’re doing your 'socialite' bit, do I?"

"My 'bit'?" Madeline slid off the counter, her eyes flashing. "At least my 'bit' doesn't involve me hiding in a studio until dawn with people I used to sleep with. You love the attention, don't you? You love that I’m sitting here losing my mind while you play the cool, collected artist."

"I’m not playing anything!" he snapped, slamming his mug down on the counter. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the sterile kitchen. "I’m trying to build something so I don't have to rely on anyone else. But you... you want me under your thumb. You want me to be as miserable and insecure as you are because you can't handle the fact that I actually trust you."

"Trust me?" Madeline stepped into his space, her finger poking his chest. "You don't trust me, Oakley. You’re obsessed with me. There’s a difference. You want to own me so no one else can have the 'rockstar’s daughter.' You’re just as bad as the paparazzi, just with a better view."

Oakley grabbed her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop her movement. His face was inches from hers, his breath warm against her skin. "I’m obsessed? You’re the one who checked my location six times yesterday. You’re the one who calls my boys when I don't answer within ten minutes. We’re both poison, Madeline. Let’s not pretend you’re the victim here."

They stood there, locked in a stalemate of heavy breathing and mutual resentment. It was a cycle they performed like a ritual: the jealousy, the accusations, the explosive anger, followed by a reconciliation that felt more like a temporary truce than a resolution. They were two people who didn't know how to love without bruising each other.

The vibration of Madeline’s own phone broke the tension. She yanked her arm away and looked at the screen. It was her father.

"I have to go," she whispered, her voice suddenly small. "The final hearing is this morning."

Oakley’s expression softened instantly, the anger drained away by the reminder of the war she was fighting outside their bedroom. "Maddy, wait. I’ll come with you."

"No," she said, grabbing her coat. "You have 'work,' remember? Stay here. Talk to your creative team. I’ll handle my own mess."

She didn't look back as she slammed the door, leaving him standing in the middle of his expensive, empty kitchen, the silence returning twice as heavy as before.

The courthouse was a circus. Madeline kept her head down, her hand tucked firmly into the crook of her father’s elbow. Colson—Machine Gun Kelly to the world, but just 'Dad' to her when the cameras weren't flashing—looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. His suit was sharp, but his eyes were bloodshot, and he kept adjusting his rings with a nervous energy that vibrated through his skin.

"You don't have to be in there for the testimony, Mads," Colson said as they approached the heavy oak doors of the courtroom. "I can have the guards take you to the back room. You don't need to hear her lie."

"I need to see her face," Madeline said firmly. "I need to know why she thinks she can just walk back in and demand millions of dollars of your money after fifteen years of nothing."

The trial had been a nightmare of tabloid headlines. Kimberly, Madeline’s mother, had surfaced with a high-powered lawyer and a tragic story about how she had been "pushed out" and "silenced" by the powerful rockstar. She claimed there were letters sent that were never delivered, pleas for contact that Colson had buried to keep Madeline for himself.

Inside the courtroom, the air was cold. Madeline sat in the front row, watching as the woman she barely remembered took the stand. Kimberly looked polished—too polished. She wore a conservative dress and a calculated expression of grief.

But as the cross-examination began, the polished image started to shatter.

Colson’s legal team didn't just have denials; they had receipts. They produced medical records from a decade ago, police reports from various precincts in Ohio, and most devastatingly, a series of sworn affidavits from former associates of Kimberly.

"Ms. Smith," the lawyer began, his voice a calm, lethal drone. "You claim you sent dozens of letters to your daughter between the years of 2010 and 2015. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Kimberly sobbed into a tissue. "Colson blocked every one. He told me he’d destroy me if I ever came near her."

"That’s interesting," the lawyer said, pulling a heavy folder from his desk. "Because we’ve subpoenaed the records of the private investigators Mr. Baker hired to find *you* during those years. We have three separate instances where you were located in various rehab facilities or motels. And we have three separate recorded conversations where you were offered a chance to see your daughter—on the condition that you pass a drug test."

The room went dead silent. Madeline felt the world tilt on its axis. She looked at her father, who was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

"In each of those instances," the lawyer continued, "you didn't ask for a visit. You asked for a payout. We have the wire transfer receipts where Mr. Baker paid for your treatment, only for you to check out forty-eight hours later. And as for the letters..." He held up a stack of papers. "These are the only letters we found. They aren't addressed to Madeline. They are addressed to Mr. Baker’s management, demanding five hundred thousand dollars in exchange for your 'permanent disappearance' from their lives."

Madeline felt a cold, numb sensation spreading from her chest to her fingertips. All those years of wondering. All those nights she had spent screaming at her father, accusing him of being controlling, of hiding the truth, of being the reason she felt so empty.

"The defendant didn't hide you from her," the lawyer concluded, looking Kimberly dead in the eye. "He hid the reality of who you were from her. He spent millions of dollars trying to make sure his daughter never had to see her mother in the state you chose to stay in."

The judge didn't take long to deliberate after that. The case was dismissed. The "letters" were proven to be forgeries created by Kimberly's legal team in a desperate attempt at a settlement. It was a total victory for Colson Baker.

Outside on the courthouse steps, the media was a frenzy of flashing lights. Colson threw his arm around Madeline, shielding her as they pushed toward the waiting SUV. Once inside, the tinted glass swallowed the noise of the world, leaving them in a vacuum.

"Mads," Colson started, his voice cracking. "I’m sorry. I wanted you to have a version of a mother that was worth missing. I didn't want you to know she was just... looking for a fix."

Madeline leaned her head against his shoulder, the tears finally coming. "You let me hate you for it. All those times I said you were too protective, that you were holding me back... you were just holding the door shut so I wouldn't see the basement."

"That’s my job," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I’m a girl dad, Mads. I’d let the whole world think I’m the villain if it meant you got to stay the hero of your own story."

He dropped her off at her apartment an hour later, promising to check in that evening. Madeline walked up the stairs in a daze, her mind replaying the image of Kimberly on the stand—the hollow eyes of a woman who didn't want a daughter, only a bank account.

When she opened her door, Oakley was sitting on her sofa. He looked up, his face etched with anxiety. He had clearly been waiting for hours.

"I saw the news," he said, standing up. "The live stream of the verdict. Maddy, I... I’m so sorry. I didn't know it was that bad."

Madeline didn't say anything. She just stood by the door, her bag hitting the floor with a thud.

Oakley walked over to her, his hands hovering as if he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch her after the morning they’d had. "I was an asshole this morning. I shouldn't have brought up the phone. I shouldn't have called you insecure. You were dealing with all that, and I was just..."

"You were being you," Madeline said, her voice hollow. "And I was being me. We’re toxic, Oakley. Do you realize that? My mother is a drug addict who tried to sell me, and my father spent nineteen years lying to me to save my feelings. I don't even know what a normal relationship looks like."

"Neither do I," Oakley admitted, stepping closer until their foreheads touched. "My life isn't exactly a blueprint for stability. We fight because we’re both terrified of being the one who cares more. We act like kids because we’re waiting for the other person to walk out."

"It’s exhausting," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I want to stop fighting. I want to stop wondering who’s texting you. But I don't know how to turn it off."

"Then don't turn it off," Oakley said, his voice dropping to that low, hypnotic rasp. "Just aim it somewhere else. Be mad at the world. Be mad at her. Don't be mad at me. I’m the only one who’s actually here."

He pulled her into a hug, and for a moment, the toxicity felt like a sanctuary. It was a dangerous thought—the idea that their mutual brokenness made them a perfect fit. They were like two jagged pieces of glass; they could fit together, but only if they were willing to bleed.

"You didn't go to the studio?" she asked against his chest.

"I told them I was sick," he lied. He had actually told them he’d kill anyone who called him while he was waiting for her. "I wasn't going to let you come home to an empty house."

Madeline pulled back, looking into his dark, beautiful, dishonest eyes. She knew he was probably still hiding things. She knew she would probably check his phone again in forty-eight hours. She knew that the cycle wasn't broken, just paused.

"Stay," she said. It wasn't a request; it was a command, a desperate plea hidden in a position of power.

"I told you," Oakley said, a small, weary smile touching his lips. "I’ve spent my whole life learning how to leave. But I can't find the exit with you. I don't think I’m even looking for it anymore."

They sat on the floor of her living room, surrounded by the luxury her father’s fame had bought her and the ghosts of the family she never had. They held each other with a grip that was too tight, a love that was too heavy, and a jealousy that was never truly gone.

Outside, the sun began to set over Los Angeles, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. Madeline watched the light fade, feeling the weight of the truth about her mother settling into her bones. She had her father. She had Oakley. She had a life that people envied and a heart that felt like it was held together by scotch tape and spite.

"Do you think we’ll ever be normal?" she asked quietly into the darkness.

Oakley shifted, his arm tightening around her waist. "Normal is boring, Maddy. Normal doesn't sell records. And normal definitely wouldn't know what to do with us."

He kissed her then—a desperate, bruising kiss that tasted like salt and adrenaline. It was the only way they knew how to communicate without hurting each other with words. In the silence of the apartment, the world felt small and manageable again. The truth was out, the villain was defeated, and they were still standing in the wreckage, refusing to let go.

It was toxic. It was messy. It was probably doomed.

But as Madeline drifted off to sleep in Oakley’s arms, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart that she was determined to keep all to herself, she decided that for now, it was enough. She would fight the world tomorrow. Tonight, she would just fight him.