Page 33 of Flipping the Script
"Screenshot dated March fifteenth," she murmured into her voice recorder, fingers flying across the keyboard. "Tasha posts 'candid' photo of Solen at coffee shop, claims accidental encounter. Geolocation data shows Tasha checked in at samelocation forty minutes earlier. Timeline inconsistency suggests premeditation."
The bedroom door creaked open, and Solen emerged wearing Quinn's oversized Princeton sweater, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips like comfortable armor. She carried two steaming cups, setting one beside Quinn's elbow before settling onto the couch with feline grace.
"How long have you been at this?" Solen tucked her legs beneath her, wrapping both hands around her mug.
"Few hours." Quinn saved her document with the satisfaction of a general cataloguing victories. "Want to see what your ex-girlfriend's been up to for the past two years?"
Solen's expression shifted from sleepy warmth to wary curiosity as Quinn angled the laptop screen toward her. The spreadsheet displayed months of cross-referenced data—social media posts, public statements, timeline discrepancies, all color-coded and annotated with Quinn's trademark precision.
"Jesus, Quinn. This is..." Solen scrolled through rows of documentation, her coffee forgotten. "I knew Tasha was calculating, but seeing it laid out like this? It's like she planned every spontaneous moment."
"Because she did." Quinn pulled up another tab showing Instagram posts arranged chronologically. "Look at this pattern. Every relationship she's had since you broke up follows the same cycle. Sweet, private courtship, then gradually more public displays, then the grand finale where she reveals intimate details for sympathy and followers."
Solen's hand found Quinn's knee, squeezing gently. "You've been building a case."
"I've been protecting what's mine." The words slipped out before Quinn could filter them, raw and possessive in a way that made her cheeks burn. "What's ours, I mean. What we're building together."
Instead of teasing her about the slip, Solen leaned over and kissed Quinn's temple, soft and grateful. "Call Diego."
Quinn reached for her phone, then hesitated. "Are you sure? Once we bring a journalist into this, there's no controlling the story."
"Diego's different. He's never written anything exploitative about either of us." Solen settled back against the couch cushions, pulling the sweater sleeves over her hands. "Besides, we're not asking him to control anything. We're asking him to report the truth."
The kitchen phone felt substantial in Quinn's hands, like a prop from an older, more serious era of journalism. Diego answered on the second ring, his voice professionally alert despite the early hour.
"Quinn Virelle. This is unexpected."
"I have a story for you," she said without preamble, watching Solen nod encouragingly from the couch. "About exploitation in the entertainment industry. Specifically, about someone who's been systematically manipulating private relationships for public gain."
A pause, then the sound of papers rustling. "I'm listening."
"Not over the phone. Can you come here? Bring whatever recording equipment you use for serious interviews."
"How serious are we talking?"
Quinn looked at Solen, who was absently touching the compass necklace resting against the Princeton sweater. "Career-ending serious. For the right person."
Twenty minutes later, Diego arrived with a leather messenger bag that would have made Quinn's look modest, professional recording equipment spilling from every pocket. Carmen followed close behind, her camera bag slung across her shoulder and an expression of barely contained excitement on her face.
"Carmen wanted to contribute," Diego explained, setting up a digital recorder on Quinn's coffee table with practiced efficiency. "Apparently she has her own experiences with your subject matter."
Quinn poured more coffee while Solen moved to the armchair, leaving the couch for Diego and Carmen. The shift in seating arrangements felt formal, interview-ready, but Solen's presence in Quinn's apartment kept the atmosphere from becoming sterile.
"Before we start," Diego pulled out his journalist's notebook, pages already covered with notes. "I should mention that three other actors contacted me privately after your situation made headlines. All of them described similar patterns of exploitation."
Carmen nodded grimly. "Tasha's not exactly subtle about staging photo opportunities. Half the photographers in this city have watched her manufacture 'candid' moments."
Quinn felt something tight in her chest loosen. They weren't alone in this. What had felt like a personal attack was actually part of a larger pattern, which meant it could be documented, proven, and stopped.
"Tell me about the timeline," Diego said, his recorder capturing every word. "When did you first notice these manipulative behaviors?"
Solen pulled her legs up into the chair, making herself smaller as she spoke. "Looking back, it started almost immediately. She'd suggest we go somewhere specific, then act surprised when photographers showed up. Or she'd bring up private conversations in public settings where strangers could overhear."
"She recorded our fights," Solen continued, her voice getting steadier as she talked. "I thought she was just documenting our relationship, but every argument she recorded eventuallyshowed up in her social media posts, twisted to make her look sympathetic."
Quinn's pen moved across her notebook, documenting details even though Diego's equipment captured everything. The act of writing helped her process the scope of Tasha's manipulation, each revelation adding to her protective fury.
A memory surfaced, chilling in its clarity: the casual suggestion from Tasha to "grab coffee" at that trendy downtown spot, the one notoriously frequented by paparazzi. Solen, oblivious, had agreed, happy for the break between rehearsals. Tasha, all wide-eyed innocence, feigning surprise when the first flash went off.Oh, look, darling! Just a random snap!But then Tasha's hand had subtly found Solen's, guiding it to a comfortable clasp, angling their bodies just so. The whisper:Smile, babe, for the 'fans'.The poses, the laughter, the intimate leans—all seemingly spontaneous, yet with a faint, almost imperceptible choreography Quinn now recognized. Solen, so genuine, had radiated warmth; Tasha, a practiced warmth, angled for the lens. It was a performance, designed for maximum public impact, disguised as candid affection.
