Billionaire Beast

Finally, the show’s over and Ida and I pose for some pictures on the stage—although it’s not entirely clear who’s taking the pictures and why—and she points me back toward Sweater Guy, still standing in that same spot, just offstage.

“You did great,” he says as I get close. “I thought that was a very powerful show. How did you think it went?”

“I think she’s kind of a cunt, but you seem like a decent guy,” I answer, and just keep walking as he stops.

It’s the middle of the day and I’ve still got to get back to the set and lay down a couple of scenes. We’re getting so close to wrapping up filming and I’m just wondering what I’m going to do with my time.

I’ve gotten a lot of offers since those pictures came out, more than a few from Lifetime, but nothing’s standing out to me.

Now that I’m almost done with my breakthrough film, I have an enormous decision to make: what kind of actress am I going to be?

Recent events are lending a lot of opportunities for me in the revenge genre, but I don’t want my work to be about my life. That’s kind of the exact opposite of what it’s supposed to be.

Taking everything outside of my career itself out of the picture for a moment, the first big question is whether I’m going to stick with lighter movies, comedies with big name actors and that sort of thing, or if I want to branch out straight out of the gate.

I could always do another film similar to Flashing Lights and then try something else after I’ve gotten some more notoriety (for my work as an actress), but the problem with that is that I’d have to fight being typecast.

There’s still time for me to figure it out and the offers seem to keep coming, so I’m not going to let my small death onscreen a few minutes ago be overshadowed with simpler worries like my career.

I get out to the parking lot and I’m mobbed by women from the audience, and once they recognize me, random people walking by the studio set.

Nobody’s asking for an autograph right off the bat, which is kind of surreal. Mostly, everyone just wants to tell me that they wish me well and that they’re glad I got out of such a bad situation, etc., etc., etc.

I’m working my way through the crowd and the first few headshots start to come out, their owners looking for a signature.

The crowd loves me now, but if I start refusing autographs to this many people without someone standing next to me telling everyone that I’ve got to go, this c

ould turn ugly pretty quick, so I start signing.

With all these people handing me headshots and photos from magazines and T-shirts, I’m not worried about writing personal messages to everyone. I’m just trying to get through so I can leave.

For the most part, the people around me are respectful, but as more time passes, the people toward the back want to get closer and the people at the front don’t want to leave where they are and I start getting jostled around a little bit. I’m starting to lose my balance when someone grabs my arm and pulls me upright and toward them.

“I have a few pictures I’d love for you to sign,” the man says, and I look up, horrified. It’s Ben. He’s wearing a hat and aviator sunglasses, I assume because if he didn’t, these people around me would tear him to shreds, but it’s him.

“You can’t be here,” I tell him, trying to keep as calm a look on my face as possible.

“I’m out on bail,” he says. “I’m a free man, and I plan on staying that way. I’m going to need you to ease back with all the stories you’re telling about me,” he says. “And I want you to drop the charges against me. If you don’t,” he says, “I’ll kill you before this thing ever gets to trial.”

My head slams into Ben’s face, and I swear I can feel the cartilage in his nose popping out of place. When I lift up my head again, he’s standing there, covering his bleeding nose with both hands. I’ve broken his glasses.

Someone in the crowd shouts, “That’s him!”

Someone else yells, “Get him!”

“No!” I shout with all the force of my lungs.

The people around me stop in their places, though they’re now restraining Ben.

“We are going to call the police and he’s going to go back to jail,” I shout. “We’re going to show him that we’re better than he is.”

There seems to be general agreement among the group, though there are still a few people throwing bottles and various detritus at him.

This is just going to be one more thing in the papers and on television, and I’m sure if the internet’s not broken already, it’s got to be nearing that end, but right now, I’m not so worried about that.

Really, I’m just feeling pretty good about the throbbing pain in my forehead and the fear in Ben’s eyes as he continues to bleed while someone calls the cops. Nobody’s physically holding him back now, but nobody’s going to let him leave here, either.

Along with the restraining order I should have filed years ago, Ben will now be receiving another set of charges, and if I’m lucky, he’ll be too old and decrepit when he comes out to even consider trying to come back into my life a third time.