Chapter 8 - The First Woman
Her name was Marisol Vega.
She was twenty-seven, a former bottle-service waitress who had left New York two years earlier after signing an NDA with Crowe Hospitality Group.
Simone found her through a chain of whispers.
Marisol agreed to speak only to Jasmine.
They met in a laundromat in Newark at midnight, because Marisol said she trusted places with fluorescent lights and exits on both ends.
Jasmine came with Camille.
Daniel’s men stayed a block away because Jasmine had demanded it.
Marisol was small, sharp-eyed, and wearing a hoodie two sizes too large.
“You’re the woman from the video,” she said.
Jasmine nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Marisol laughed bitterly. “For what? Surviving?”
“For making this public before knowing who else might get pulled in.”
That made Marisol look at her differently.
They sat near the dryers while clothes turned behind glass.
Marisol told the story in pieces.
The private room. Nathaniel. Victor Hale. The missing hours. The settlement. The lawyer who smiled while explaining that memory gaps made juries uncomfortable. The check she cashed because rent was due and shame was expensive.
“I thought I was the only one stupid enough,” Marisol said.
Jasmine’s throat tightened. “You weren’t stupid.”
“I went back there.”
“You were working.”
“I smiled at him.”
“You were surviving.”
Marisol looked away fast.
That was the first crack.
Jasmine reached across the plastic table but did not touch her.
“I’m not asking you to go public.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because if this moves forward, Arthur Crowe will try to turn every woman into a liar before she even speaks. You deserve warning. And choice.”
Marisol wiped her face with her sleeve.
“No one gave me that.”
“I know.”
The dryer buzzed.
For a long moment, Marisol listened to it like it might tell her what to do.
Then she pulled a flash drive from her pocket.
“I kept recordings,” she said. “Meetings with their lawyer. Victor calling me after. Nathaniel laughing in the background once.”
Camille sucked in a breath.
Marisol pushed the drive toward Jasmine.
“I don’t want to be famous.”
“You won’t be.”
“I don’t want my mother to know.”
“We’ll protect your name.”
Marisol stared at her. “Can you?”
Jasmine wanted to promise.
Instead, she told the truth.
“I don’t know. But I will fight like hell.”
Marisol nodded once.
“Then hell can have my statement.”
On the way back to Manhattan, Jasmine sat silent in Camille’s car.
Her hands shook around the flash drive.
At her apartment, Daniel waited in the lobby.
Not inside. Not upstairs.
Exactly where she had allowed.
“Ms. Brooks,” he said. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
He nodded as if that was a complete answer.
“Do you want Chairman Lee informed?”
Jasmine looked at him.
She thought about Min-jae’s face when he said love. Thought about the footage, the files, the women whose names had been hidden inside rich men’s parties.
“Yes,” she said. “Tell him we found the first woman.”
Daniel bowed his head.
Then Jasmine added, “And tell him not to come.”
Daniel almost smiled.
“He will hate that.”
“Good.”
Upstairs, Jasmine listened to the city hum outside her window.
May you like
For the first time, fear did not feel like a cage.
It felt like fuel.
