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Hollywood Whore

The Weight of Gold and Grudges

The morning light in Los Angeles was too bright, too clinical, and far too unforgiving for the state of Madeline’s nerves. She sat at the vanity in her bedroom, staring at her reflection. On the surface, she was the picture of a resilient heiress—skin glowing, hair perfectly waved, a silent victory over the woman who had tried to dismantle her father’s legacy in a courtroom just twenty-four hours ago. But beneath the silk robe, her heart was a frantic bird hitting the walls of a cage.

Kimberly was gone. The court had seen her for what she was: a ghost chasing a paycheck, a woman whose only maternal instinct was a craving for a fix. Colson had won. He had protected Madeline’s childhood by burying the truth, and he had protected her adulthood by exposing it.

But the truth had a bitter aftertaste.

"You’re doing that thing again," Oakley’s voice drifted from the doorway. He was leaning against the frame, his hair a mess, wearing nothing but a pair of grey joggers. He looked like home, and he looked like a threat, all at once. "You’re staring through yourself. Stop it."

Madeline didn't turn around. She watched him in the mirror as he walked toward her, his movements fluid and cat-like. "I’m allowed to think, Oakley. My entire life was a redacted file until yesterday. Give me a minute to process that my mother thinks I’m worth exactly five hundred thousand dollars and a legal settlement."

Oakley reached her, his large, tattooed hands settling on her shoulders. He began to knead the tension there, but Madeline stiffened. She could feel the heat of him, the familiar pull of his presence, but the lingering resentment from their fight the night before was still simmering just below the surface.

"She’s a piece of work, Maddy. But she’s out of the picture now. Your dad made sure of it," Oakley said, his voice low.

Madeline pulled away, standing up and crossing the room to grab a coffee she didn't really want. "My dad. Right. My dad who lied to me for fifteen years. Everyone is so happy he 'won,' but nobody is talking about the fact that I spent my whole life thinking I wasn't good enough for her to stay, when the reality was even uglier. He let me live a lie."

Oakley turned, his eyes darkening. "He did it to save you. You saw her in there. You wanted that woman around you when you were six? Ten? Sixteen? He gave you a life, Madeline. Don't act like he’s the villain because he didn't want to break your heart sooner."

"Oh, so now you’re the expert on fatherhood?" Madeline snapped, spinning around to face him. "The guy who barely speaks to his own family? You love a good secret, Oakley. That’s why you defend him. You’re just like him—controlling, selective with the truth, always deciding what I can and can't handle."

Oakley’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek. He took a slow, deliberate step toward her. "Don't bring my family into this. And don't compare me to Colson. I’m the one who stayed here while you were spiraling. I’m the one who took the hits when you decided to take your anger out on everyone with a pulse."

"You stayed because you like the drama," she countered, her voice rising. "You like being the one I run to. It makes you feel powerful, doesn't it? Knowing that despite all your 'work' and your 'creative teams' and the girls sliding into your DMs, I’m the one trapped in this house waiting for you."

"Trapped?" Oakley let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "You’re a Baker, Madeline. You’ve never been trapped a day in your life. You’re the one who builds the walls. You’re so paranoid that I’m going to leave that you’ve turned this relationship into a prison. I can't even look at my phone without you acting like I’m planning a getaway."

"Maybe if you gave me a reason to trust you, I wouldn't have to!"

"I gave you every reason!" he shouted, the sound echoing off the high ceilings. "I’ve been here! I’ve been nowhere else! But you’re so used to being abandoned that you’re trying to sabotage this so you can say you were right. You want me to be the bad guy so you don't have to be the one who’s broken."

Madeline felt the sting of the words because they were true. She felt the familiar urge to lash out, to say something so cruel it would leave a permanent mark. "Go then. If it’s such a burden to love me, go back to London. Go back to the girls who don't ask questions. I’m sure they’re much easier to manage than a 'broken' girl like me."

Oakley stared at her for a long beat, his chest heaving. The silence was violent. He looked like he was on the verge of walking out, and for a split second, Madeline’s heart stopped. She had pushed too hard. She had found the limit.

Then, his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The sound was like a match dropped in a room full of gasoline. Madeline lunged for it, but Oakley was faster. He snatched the device before she could see the screen.

"Give it to me," she demanded, her voice shaking with a mix of fear and fury.

"No," Oakley said, his voice deathly quiet. "Because it doesn't matter who it is. Even if it’s my mother, or my manager, or a wrong number, you’ve already decided I’m guilty. I’m done playing this game today, Madeline."

"If you don't show me that phone, we’re done," she threatened, the lie tasting like copper in her mouth. She didn't want to be done. She wanted him to hold her until the world stopped spinning, but she didn't know how to ask for that without losing.

Oakley looked at the phone, then back at her. He tossed the device onto the bed. "Fine. Look. Read everything. And when you realize there’s nothing there, I want you to remember that you’re the one who killed this. Not me. Not your mother. You."

He walked past her toward the bathroom, the door slamming shut with a force that rattled the frames on the wall.

Madeline stood frozen. The phone lay on the duvet, the screen dark. Her hand trembled as she reached for it. She wanted to be wrong. She prayed to a God she didn't believe in that she was wrong. She swiped the screen.

It was a text from Alabama.

*Check on your dad. He’s not answering me and he looked rough after the hearing. Call me.*

The air left Madeline’s lungs in a sudden, painful rush. She sank onto the edge of the bed, the phone slipping from her fingers. The guilt was instantaneous, a cold wave that left her shivering. Oakley had been telling the truth. He was always telling the truth, and she was always looking for the lie.

She sat there for ten minutes, listening to the sound of the shower running. When it finally stopped, she didn't move. She waited until Oakley emerged, a towel wrapped around his waist, his face a mask of cold indifference.

"Happy?" he asked, not looking at her as he went to his dresser.

"Oakley..."

"Don't. I don't want the apology, Maddy. I don't want the 'I’m just stressed' speech. We do this every week. We fight, we scream, we say things we can't take back, and then we have sex and pretend it’s fine. It’s not fine. It’s exhausting."

"I know," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just... I don't know how to be any other way. Everything I love gets taken or turns out to be a lie. I’m waiting for the floor to fall out from under me."

Oakley stopped, a shirt halfway over his head. He pulled it down and looked at her, his expression softening just a fraction. "I’m the floor, Madeline. I’ve been trying to be the floor for two years. But you keep digging holes in me to see if I’m solid."

He walked over and sat beside her, but he didn't touch her. The distance felt like a canyon.

"My dad lied to protect me," she said, staring at her hands. "But all it did was make me feel like I was crazy for feeling like something was missing. And then I met you, and you’re so... you’re so much. I’m terrified that if I let my guard down for even a second, I’ll wake up and you’ll realize that I’m just a collection of other people’s secrets."

"You think I’m here for your father’s name?" Oakley asked, finally reaching out to tilt her chin up so she had to look at him. "I’ve got my own name, Maddy. I’ve got my own money. I’m here because you’re the only person who looks at me and doesn't see a brand. But you have to stop treating me like the enemy."

"I’ll try," she promised, though they both knew it was a fragile vow.

"You won't," he countered with a sad, knowing smile. "You’ll do this again in three days. And I’ll probably yell back. But maybe next time, we can skip the part where you tell me to leave."

The tension broke, replaced by the heavy, complicated intimacy that defined them. It wasn't healthy, and it wasn't peaceful, but it was theirs.

Later that afternoon, they drove over to Colson’s place. The gates of the estate opened slowly, and the atmosphere inside was uncharacteristically quiet. They found Colson in the glass-walled sunroom, staring out at the pool. He had a guitar in his lap, but he wasn't playing. He looked smaller than usual, the weight of the last few months finally catching up to him.

"Hey," Madeline said softly, stepping into the room.

Colson looked up, a ghost of his usual smirk appearing. "Hey, kid. You okay? I heard you and the Brit were having a go at it this morning. Could hear the yelling from the guest house."

Madeline felt herself blush. "We’re fine, Dad. Just... being us."

Colson looked at Oakley, who nodded respectfully. There was a silent understanding between the two men—a shared burden of loving a girl who was built out of lightning and glass.

"She’s gone, Mads," Colson said, turning back to the window. "Kimberly. She took the 'go away' money I offered after the verdict and caught a flight to Vegas. She won't be back. Not for a long time."

Madeline sat on the arm of his chair. "You should have told me, Dad. About the letters. About who she really was."

"I know," Colson sighed, his fingers brushing the strings of the guitar, creating a dissonant chord. "But you were so happy when you were little, Mads. Every time I looked at you, I saw a version of me that wasn't ruined yet. I wanted to keep it that way. I thought if I could just be enough for both of us, you’d never feel the hole she left."

"You were enough," Madeline said, and for the first time, she meant it without the sting of resentment. "But I’m nineteen. I can handle the truth, even if it’s ugly."

Colson reached out and squeezed her hand. "I know you can. You’re a Baker. We’re built for the ugly stuff."

Oakley stood by the door, watching them. He felt like an outsider in their shared history, yet he was the only one who truly understood the fallout. He saw the way Madeline leaned into her father, the way she still looked for validation in the eyes of the man who had shaped her world with both love and lies.

As they left the estate later that evening, the sun was dipping below the horizon in a blaze of violet and orange. The air was cooling, and for a moment, the chaos of the city felt far away.

"You want to go to the studio with me?" Oakley asked as they got into his car. "I’m finishing the bridge on that track we were talking about."

Madeline looked at him, the glow of the dashboard lighting up his sharp features. "Is the creative team going to be there?"

Oakley groaned, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "No, Madeline. Just the engineers. And me. And you, if you can go ten minutes without accusing me of treason."

"I make no promises," she said, leaning over to kiss him. It was a lingering, desperate kiss, a silent apology for the morning and a silent plea for the night.

They arrived at the studio, and the familiar hum of the equipment seemed to settle something in Madeline’s chest. This was their world—a world of artificial lights, loud music, and the constant pressure to be more than they were.

Oakley went into the booth, his voice filling the room through the monitors. He was rapping about London, about the climb, about the things he had to leave behind to get where he was. Madeline sat at the console, watching him through the glass. He looked so in control, so untouchable.

Then, he stopped. He looked at her through the glass and spoke into the mic. "This next part is for the girl who thinks she’s a mess."

He began to record a new verse, his voice dropping into a melodic, raw tone. The lyrics were about her—about the way she fought him, the way she hid her heart, and the way he would rather be in a war with her than at peace with anyone else.

Madeline felt the tears prickling her eyes. It was the most honest he had ever been, and he was doing it in front of a room full of strangers.

But as the track ended and Oakley stepped out of the booth, Madeline’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, her heart skipping a beat.

It was an unknown number. A photo attachment.

She opened it, and her blood turned to ice. It was a photo of Oakley, taken two weeks ago in London. He was standing outside a club, and a girl—the one from the 'creative team'—had her arms wrapped around his neck, her lips pressed to his cheek.

The caption read: *He’s good at lyrics, isn't he? Too bad he’s better at lying.*

Madeline looked up at Oakley, who was walking toward her with a triumphant smile, oblivious to the bomb that had just detonated in her hand.

"What did you think?" he asked, reaching for her.

Madeline stepped back, the phone held out like a weapon. The peace was gone. The truce was over. The cycle was beginning again, and this time, she wasn't sure if there was enough love in the world to stop the explosion.

"Who sent you that?" Oakley asked, his smile vanishing as he saw her face.

"Does it matter?" Madeline whispered, her voice trembling. "You told me you were in the studio that night. You told me you were alone."

"Maddy, wait—"

"Don't," she screamed, the sound tearing through the expensive silence of the studio. "Don't you dare tell me it’s not what it looks like. I’m so tired of looking, Oakley. I’m so tired of seeing the same thing over and over again."

She turned and ran out of the room, the sound of her heels echoing like a countdown. Oakley followed, shouting her name, but the doors of the elevator were already closing.

She was the daughter of a rockstar. She was the girl whose mother didn't want her. She was the storm that never ended. And as she stepped out into the cold L.A. night, Madeline realized that maybe the reason she always looked for the exit was because she was the only one who knew the building was already on fire.