Power Couple (22 page)

He waved me off, unaffected by my threats. “Do what you gotta do, baby. It'll be your word against mine…and after your sex tape goes viral, your word won't be worth shit.”

CHAPTER 35

M
averick sauntered out of the workout room and I was left with an awful feeling of doom. Not knowing what to do or whom to call, I gave a strangled, hopeless cry. My husband and I were represented by the same PR firm, and with him being the bigger star and the person responsible for paying their exorbitant fee, it was pointless for me to turn to our PR team for support.

That stupid prenup I'd signed when I was young and dumb would prevent me from getting half his money or any spousal support. I wouldn't get child support either if he won custody of our child. Oh, Lord…my life sucked!

But I couldn't give up. Maybe I could convince Josh not to go public with the video. I'd offer to bow out gracefully from the show if that's what he wanted. My finger was poised to press Josh's number when my phone suddenly rang.

I noticed that the call was from a private number, and I swallowed in fear. Josh was about to make his demands, but I found it weird that he would bother to block his number. With a bad feeling swelling in the pit of my stomach, I swiped the screen, and accepted the call.

“Hello?” My voice came out in a tiny, frightened tone.

“Hi, Cori,” said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't accurately identify.

“Who is this?”

“You forgot me, already? Aw, my feelings are hurt.”

Trying to make out the voice, I wrinkled my brow. “Who the fuck is this?” I shouted insistently.

“No reason to get ghetto on me. I thought you were too polished and dignified to go there. Oops, that's right, there's nothing dignified about you. You get down and dirty, with your pants down and your leg hitched up, fucking in public, for all eyes to see. Good thing I had my phone camera handy. Your adoring fans need to know about your fraudulent, fake-ass self.”

Suddenly, I became aware of who was behind the attempt to destroy my image and my good name…and it wasn't Josh. “What do you want from me, you malicious little viper,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Temper, temper,” Ralphie said mockingly.

“How dare you try to blackmail me after all I did for you and your family—”

“You didn't do anything out of the kindness of your heart. You bought my mom some dentures and tried to give her a makeover because you didn't want to be embarrassed by her. You considered her a hood rat and a disgrace to the race. But you fucked up when you played me. My food was perfect and you and those judges conspired together and got me kicked off the show.”

“That's not true, Ralphie. I didn't have anything to do with your elimination.”

“I heard the words ‘goodbye, Ralphie,' come straight out of your mouth.”

“I don't pick the winners—”

“That's a lie,” he hissed, cutting me off. “I saw Preacher Yancy's name printed on the card you left behind in your dressing room the night of the finale, but you didn't announce it that way. You gave the win to your boyfriend. Obviously, your show isn't about the best cook. It's about who's laying the best pipe in you.”

“Michelangelo is not my boyfriend,” I said, but didn't sound convincing.

“You could have fooled me. Why did I catch the two of you about to smash on the couch several weeks before the finale? I was the only cook who could beat Michelangelo, and I bet you planned to get rid of me way back then.”

“What happened between Michelangelo and me was wrong…it was a mistake. But there was no conspiracy against you, Ralphie. I swear.”

“Why don't we let the public be the judge of that after they see the tape? I'm not going to release it until after the finale airs. Then, while Michelangelo is making his rounds and doing TV appearances, I'll be doing the same thing—going on talk shows and discussing what I filmed.”

Never in a million years would I have believed that such a seemingly sweet and harmless soul like Ralphie would have the power to blow up my life. His capacity for vengeance was chilling. But I couldn't let a little nobody punk like him publicly humiliate me. I was shrewder than he was. I could outthink him. Despite how upset and shaken I was, I had to pull myself together and outmaneuver that lowlife, orphaned, motherfucking black-acting, white-ass, street urchin.

“Ralphie,” I said in the soothing tone of a negotiator speaking to a terrorist in the midst of a hostage situation. “Listen, I can help you with your career.”

“What career? Oh, do you mean you can help me get a promotion from the stockroom at Target to a cashier's position? No, thanks, I don't enjoy dealing with the public.”

“I'm serious, Ralphie. I know lots of influential people and I can help get you started in the culinary field. I have ways to get you an apprenticeship with some of the most prestigious chefs in the industry. In fact, I'm tight with the owner of one of the top soul food
restaurants in Harlem. A place called Bay Leaf that I used to own. I could get you a job as a sous chef. You don't have to worry about housing; I'll set you up in a nice apartment near the restaurant.”

“Hmm.”

“What do you think?” I asked, feeling hopeful.

“I think you're kissing my butt so hard,
my
lips are starting to hurt.”

His insult infuriated me. But being at his mercy, I couldn't curse him out the way I wanted to.

Ralphie cleared his throat. “The way you did me was wrong, but I'm not comfortable being a vindictive person—it's not my style. So, you don't have to worry about me exposing you. Well, not to the whole world, but I already sent your husband a copy. From what I could tell after meeting Maverick when he was a guest-judge on your show, he seems like a good man, and he deserved to know what was going on behind his back.”

Maverick was a good man, my ass. Ralphie had no idea of the kind of man-slut I was married to.

“Anyway,” Ralphie continued, “as far as the public goes, it's not my place to blow your cover.”

Oh, thank God!

“I used to look up to you, Cori. You were my idol. In my mind, you were the most decent person in the world. It's such a letdown to discover how you really are—the kind of person who's so hungry for fame, money, and power, you'd probably throw your own mother under the bus to get what you want.”

Ralphie was really going in on me, and I felt like shit. It was hard to listen to what he was saying. Until now, I'd never realized how badly the truth hurt.

“I'm going to take you up on your offer,” Ralphie said. “Go ahead and set something up for me at the restaurant in Harlem. Tell the
owner I'm willing to start at the bottom—as a dishwasher or whatever. I'll work hard and earn that sous chef position in no time.”

Realizing my secret was safe, and that I wouldn't have to live in disgrace, relief washed over me. I would have kissed Ralphie if he'd been within my reach. “You're right, Ralphie,” I said, feeling elated. “You'll be a sous chef before you know it. With determination, you'll become a restaurateur one day.”

“Nah, I don't have a head for business. Being able to cook for a living will make me happy.”

“Whatever your aspirations, I hope you achieve them. I also want to say thank you for giving me the opportunity to redeem myself.”

“You're welcome.”

I told Ralphie I'd be in touch with him in a day or two. Considering the circumstances, I felt we'd ended the conversation on fairly decent terms.

But I had a lot to think about. It had been as if Ralphie had held a giant magnifying glass in front of me, forcing me to take a hard look at myself, and I didn't like what I'd seen.

• • •

I should have been packing for my trip, but I sat on the edge of the bed instead, contemplating cancelling. As badly as I wanted to be with Michelangelo, it would be foolish to leave New York while Maverick was assembling a team of attorneys to help him end our marriage and ruin my life. He had access to the video, and I wouldn't put it past him to release the damning footage himself.

I needed a pit-bull-type lawyer. Someone who was clever enough to find loopholes that would invalidate the prenup I'd signed. But I was between a rock and a hard place, fearing that putting up a fight against Maverick would provoke him into releasing the tape.

My phone pinged with a text message from Sophia, informing me that her lower back had started bothering her. She further stated that she'd heard that prenatal yoga was helpful for back pain and wondered if I'd be willing to foot the bill for yoga classes.
Dear Lord, would this woman ever stop pestering me?

While grumbling to myself, I was struck by an idea. I quickly called her. She seemed surprised that I'd personally called and was delighted when I told her I'd be more than happy to pay for the classes.

Then, stealthily, I steered the conversation in a different direction.

“I need to talk about a sensitive subject.”

“Is something wrong, Cori?”

“Yes, I'd like to apologize for what my husband did to you. I don't believe I was as compassionate as I could have been when you told me about those bite marks he put on your thighs.”

Sophia sighed. “Yeah, that was pretty shocking.”

“I bet it was. I should have been there for you—on an emotional level. But I was so busy with the show at the time. But now that we've finished taping, I'd like to make it up to you, if I can.” I cleared my throat. “I bet you were in a lot of pain afterwards,” I said, encouraging her to talk about the unfortunate incident.

I was still scheming, and I wasn't proud of myself. But a leopard couldn't change its spots overnight, I reasoned, and then promised to become a better version of myself after the legal battle with Maverick was behind me. In the meantime, my dire circumstances required me to fight fire with fire.

“It was extremely painful. My inner thighs were black and blue with visible teeth indentations for over a week. I don't know how I would have explained those bites to my husband if he were home. Having the doctor at the fertility clinic notice the bites was mortifying.”

“I bet it was. Do you think the doctor documented what he saw in your medical record?” I asked, hoping there was a legitimate paper trail that proved Maverick was a sadistic pervert.

“Yes, the doctor insisted on giving me a tetanus shot. He suspected I had been abused by someone, and so he also took photos. I have no doubt that he mentioned his treatment and his suspicions of abuse in his notes.”

I smiled.
You want to fuck with me, Maverick? Well, I've got something for your ass: photos of your handiwork and suspicions of physical abuse, documented by a physician!

“The doctor believed that I was in an abusive situation, and suggested I take photos myself in case I ever needed evidence of domestic abuse for the police.”

“Did you take pictures?” I was growing excited.

“Yes, but I would never show them to anyone. I'm your biggest fan, Cori. I would never do anything to create bad publicity for the Mavcor brand. All I ever wanted was for us to be friends. The way you've ignored me has been terribly hurtful.”

“I'm sorry, Sophia. Like I said, filming the show was all-consuming. Now that I'm free, I can spend more time with you.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. Would you like to get together today? Maybe do some shopping?”

“I'd love to.”

“Okay, I'll see you in an hour.”

CHAPTER 36

I
took Sophia on the biggest shopping spree of her life. I bought her a bunch of household goods and spent a lot of money on expensive tech stuff for her son and her husband. I also offered to pay to have her apartment cleaned once a week so she wouldn't have to strain her back.

She was ecstatic, but I felt the money I'd spent was a small price to pay for what I was getting in return.

I called a meeting with Maverick and his group of attorneys. They all smiled condescendingly when I arrived at the conference room of the prestigious law firm without benefit of counsel. But I wiped those smug expressions off their faces when I spread out blown-up photos of Sophia's ravaged thighs on top of the conference room table.

“This is some of my husband's handiwork,” I announced.

Maverick went into a coughing fit.

“This photo could have come from anywhere. It means nothing,” said the youngest attorney in the room, waving the photos and turning down his mouth disapprovingly. He was a show-off, overly eager and aggressive, and I was looking forward to putting him in his place.

“I figured you boys would attempt to invalidate the photos, so I also brought along a video.” I'd deliberately called them all
boys
simply to irk them. My ploy worked, judging by their sour expressions.

“Are you sure you want to have a war of videos?” quipped a pompous-looking, older man with beady eyes, a hawk nose, and badly thinning hair.

I gave a shrug, fished my phone out of my purse, and confidently pulled up the video.

When Sophia appeared on screen, sitting in her living room, dabbing tears from her eyes, Maverick dropped his head. His team of high-priced attorneys exchanged confused glances.

My husband, who is serving in the Marines, and who is currently deployed in the Middle East, is a fan of Maverick Brown. He has followed Mr. Brown's football career since he played football in college. As for myself, I've been a super fan of his wife, Cori, ever since I bought her first cookbook. Naturally, I was honored to be chosen to be the surrogate mother of their child. I trusted both Mr. and Mrs. Brown, implicitly, and it's
difficult for me to come to terms with what Mr. Brown did to me. I can't express how stunned I was when the man I knew as a sports hero lured me to a hotel under false pretenses. Once he got me inside, he pounced on me like a wild animal. I've never been so frightened in my life.

“She's fucking lying,” Maverick exploded, jumping out of his chair. “That bitch pretended to be a prostitute and lured me to the hotel.”

A portly lawyer with several chins frowned at Maverick. “That's not something you want to say out loud. As your counsel, I have to advise you not to repeat that the accuser reeled you in under the pretext of being a prostitute.”

“Yeah, you're right. That sounded messed up,” Maverick agreed and quietly returned to his seat.

On the tape, Sophia continued:
My image of Maverick Brown was shattered on the night of June 23, 2015 when he violently attacked me. He savagely bit my thigh, and then after the vicious mauling, he raped me.

“That's a damn lie. With my money and looks, why would I have
to rape that homely bitch?” Maverick lashed out. One of the lawyers gave him a stern look and gestured for him to quiet down.

I saw a doctor the next day and received a tetanus shot. Mr. Brown left his teeth marks on my inner thighs, which the doctor documented in his medical report. He also photographed my injuries. It is my belief that a rapist usually strikes more than once, and if there are other women who have been savagely raped by Mr. Brown, I urge you to come forward and join me in seeking justice. In my opinion, Mr. Brown is not only a violent rapist but also a practitioner of cannibalism. Had I not fought him off, there's no doubt in my mind that he would have devoured pieces of me…he would have eaten me alive.

The word “cannibalism” caused a collective gasp from the attorneys.

Maverick was livid, standing again, and this time he pounded the table. “I'm going to sue that whore for defamation of character.”

“Hold on there, Maverick,” the chubby lawyer said. “I hate having to put you in an uncomfortable situation, but I have to ask, did you bite that woman?”

Maverick dragged his fingers down his face. “Yes, but it's not what you think. She was into it. She loved every minute.”

All three lawyers groaned.

I rubbed my hands together gleefully. “You're putting the nails in your own coffin with that statement, buddy. Opposing counsel will eat you alive for saying that a victim enjoyed being ravaged and raped.”

“But it's true,” Maverick persisted. “I didn't do anything to Sophia that she didn't want me to do.”

The young, aggressive lawyer jumped into the fray. “Maverick, are there any other women who could possibly get on this bandwagon? Anyone else you can think of who might accuse you of raping and, uh, biting her?”

Mute with embarrassment, Maverick could only shake his head.

“What about Katya, the Russian escort?” I piped in.

The beady-eyed lawyer jerked his head toward Maverick. “Did you bite a Russian escort?”

Maverick groaned and lowered his head, apparently too distressed to speak.

“I have the Russian escort on speed dial,” I offered. “And there's Tamara, our former chef. She's also been attacked by Maverick and I'm sure she has a few war wounds to back up her story. When word gets out about my carnivorous husband, women will come crawling out of the woodwork to get themselves a piece of a multimillion-dollar class-action suit.”

The young, aggressive lawyer flipped through the photos again, and then looked up at Maverick. “This doesn't bode well for you, Maverick. It looks particularly bad that your accuser is the wife of a military man, serving his country in the Middle East. Add the fact that she's making the sacrifice to be a surrogate for your unborn child, and I'm afraid she'll come off as extremely believable.”

I smirked as I glanced at Maverick. “You need to settle privately with Sophia and keep this thing out of the media. Seriously, do you really want your name associated with cannibalism?”

“Will you stop using that word?” Maverick shouted.

“Certainly,” I replied with a catty smile. “I'll stop using the word and Sophia will be satisfied with a moderate payout if you tear up the prenup and pay me what I deserve for putting up with your shit for ten long years.”

Slumped in his chair, Maverick mumbled, “Whatever you want, Cori. I'll do whatever it takes to make this go away.”

“Oh, I also want full custody of the baby; you can have weekend visitation.”

He nodded his head.

I left the lawyer's office feeling powerful. The way I had deflected the negativity from me and placed it on Maverick was brilliant. I'd singlehandedly outsmarted Maverick and his dream team. I was sure Grandma Eula Mae would have been proud of me.

• • •

Azaria Fierro ended up getting my show, after all. And she didn't do anything nefarious or underhanded to get it. I gave up the spotlight and all the trappings of fame willingly. I wished her all the luck in the world. She was going to need it being married to my ex-husband. Well, they weren't married, yet. But they were engaged and planning the wedding of the century. Maverick and Azaria were the latest power couple in the entertainment field.

Busy keeping up his golden-boy image, Maverick rarely had time to spend with our eighteen-month-old son, Ryker. Although we both lived in New York, I would say that Maverick only saw the baby approximately once a month. It was a good thing I'd won full custody, otherwise, Ryker would have been raised by a parade of nannies.

Before putting him down for the night, I rocked my son in my lap as I read
The Velveteen Rabbit.
Being fussy, he kept yanking the book from my hands and flinging it to the floor.

I knew exactly what to do to get him to settle down. With Ryker on my hip, I crossed the room and searched through the collection of his favorite DVDs.

I popped in a DVD and the moment Michelangelo appeared on the TV screen, Ryker squealed happily, “Daddy!”

“Yep, that's Daddy,” I affirmed. He referred to Maverick as Mav and called Michelangelo, Daddy. In my son's mind, Daddy was the one who put in the time.

Ryker and I settled back in the rocking chair. Together, we watched Michelangelo as he stood on a boat, bare-chested and wearing swimming trunks. He explained that he was about to jump into the green ocean of the Bahamas to forage for shellfish. While putting on his gear—fins and snorkel mask—he said he would be diving fifteen feet down and while below water, he'd have to flip over huge rocks to find hidden conch.

“That's Daddy when he was in the Bahamas,” I explained to Ryker. “When Mommy's able to travel, you and I are going to start joining him on his adventures.”

Seeming to understand, Ryker grinned up at me.

Michelangelo had made such a great impression when our Hawaii photo shoot hit the newsstands, his Twitter and Instagram followers surpassed a million followers. After season two of
Cookin' with Cori
aired, his fan base shot up to ten million and he was offered his own travel show,
Diving and Foraging for Food.

For his show, Michelangelo traveled to various locations around the world where he sometimes trekked through dense woods carrying a backpack and shovel as he dug for wild-grown herbs, mushrooms, and berries. He once went on a truffle-hunting expedition in an ancient village in Croatia where the foraging required specially trained dogs to sniff out the coveted prize. Once the dogs had led him to the location, he carefully dug truffles from the ground. Even sweaty and covered in mud, Michelangelo was a big hunk of rugged handsomeness.

When he wasn't digging in the ground for elusive ingredients, or trekking through mountainous terrain to pick wild-grown vegetation, he was jumping off motorboats and yachts, searching for seafood.

The second segment of the show featured him using the foraged ingredients to prepare a meal, which he cooked outdoors on a crude manmade stove, oven, or grill. Unlike the glamorous life of the typical celebrity chef, Michelangelo went off the beaten path and got his hands dirty while searching for unusual ingredients.

His show was a huge success and got the highest ratings on the Travel Channel. Not only was he delicious eye candy, showing off his rugged masculinity as he traversed rough terrain, climbed mountains, and swam the raging sea in a quest to find food, but he also possessed an earnest charm that dazzled TV viewers.

The backstabbing, contract disputes, network strong-arm tactics, and other forms of Hollywood politics that were part of the entertainment industry, had all become too much for me. Once I became a mother, I yearned for a simpler lifestyle and had gladly given up the bright lights of show business.

Michelangelo wasn't the only breadwinner in our household. Contributing to the family income, I penned a new cookbook that featured healthier eating, and I was looking forward to its release. Though I had only agreed to minimal promotion, the presale figures were more than my previous cookbooks.

It turned out the painting that Grandma Eula Mae had left in the attic was worth a fortune. The artist, Horace Pippin, was right up there with African American greats like Jacob Lawrence, Romare Bearden, and Henry Ossawa Tanner. I split the profits with my mom, aunt, and cousins, and still came out with a large sum.

With the addition of my multimillion-dollar divorce settlement, we were doing quite well.

When Ryker finally fell asleep, I put him in his crib and tiptoed out of the nursery. Michelangelo would be arriving home soon from filming in Amsterdam where he had foraged for rare herbs in the heart of the city.

Known for its red light district, Amsterdam was famous for its brothels and sex shops, but I wasn't worried in the least about bae sampling the human merchandise of women who displayed their wares in the red-fringed window parlors. Michelangelo was a faithful partner, and for the first time in my life, I was experiencing what it felt like to be cherished, respected, and loved.

“Honey, I'm home,” Michelangelo called out when he entered the apartment, and my heart fluttered with love. I rushed from our bedroom to greet him. He collected me in his strong arms and then broke the embrace and bent over my protruding tummy.

“How's my baby girl?” he asked, rubbing my abdomen.

“She's been kicking like crazy all day. I think she was excited because Daddy was coming home.”

“And what about my boy?” he asked, grasping my hand and tugging me along as he made his way to Ryker's nursery.

With Michelangelo's arm around my waist, we stood over the crib, smiling down at our son. Yes,
our
son. Though Michelangelo wasn't Ryker's biological father, he was proving to be more of a father than Maverick would ever be.

Speaking of biological fathers…I had yet to reveal to my mom and Aunt Chloe the true identity of their dad. I had no idea how they'd take it, and I wasn't even sure if it was my place to tell them.

Grandma Eula Mae was my guardian angel. Through the hard lessons she'd learned, I was able to stop making the same mistakes. Her audio recordings had redirected me from the superficiality of show business and guided me toward what really mattered in life. With Maverick, I had been attracted to the money and fame, but with Michelangelo, I had found real love for the first time.

“Hungry, babe? Do you want me to heat something up for you?” I asked my beautiful man.

“Yeah, I'm a little hungry. What are you going to heat up?”

“It's a surprise dish.” I threaded my fingers in his and led him out of the baby's room.

In the hallway, he kissed me passionately, groaning as he ran his hands beneath my clothes. “Ooo, I missed you, baby.”