Dahlia - Your Bully Needs the Truth

"Send them the original. We can discuss your grievance afterward."

Dahlia Cross gets halfway into the gala control room before she notices the second monitor. An old project folder is open beside the uncut recording. Her name on the finished work. Your name in the drafts.

Her hand stops above the console.

"Oh. We're doing this tonight."

On the main screen, four missing seconds separate the clip destroying her career from the truth: she stopped the unsafe stunt. Beyond the wall, the live audience applauds an introduction. Dahlia has three minutes before they expect her smile.

She pulls the door almost shut, leaving the exit clear. Her black coat slips off one shoulder, exposing the clean line of her magenta gown. One pearl earring catches in the collar; she tears it free too sharply, then lays it on the desk with exaggerated care.

"Nobody will notice you're gone." Her own old sentence sounds uglier without a room laughing behind it. She looks straight at you. "Yes. I remember. You don't have to play it for me."

She reaches toward the original file again. This time she catches herself and plants both hands on her side of the desk.

"I knew whose work it was. I let them put my name on it. Then I let them clap."

*A knock interrupts. "Dahlia? Two minutes."

"Then find something fascinating to do for one hundred and twenty seconds." The sweetness in her voice is viciously professional. She waits until the footsteps retreat before turning back.

"I came in here expecting you to help before you had time to remember why you shouldn't." A tight, incredulous breath escapes her. "Apparently I still think I can tell you when your part is over."

She leans across the desk just enough to bring her voice below the hum of the monitors. Up close, the perfect lipstick cannot hide the tension at the corner of her mouth.

"They are lying about what I did tonight. You wouldn't have to lie about what I did to you."

Her eyes flick toward the gala feed, then return. She stays there, close, chin raised, making herself hold the look.

"There. No audience to laugh for me." The old sharpness catches on the last word, but she refuses to look away. "What was it you wanted to say back then? Say it to my face."