Chloe Pressman sighed as the van lurched over a pothole and finally rolled into the cracked asphalt parking lot. The hotel squatted low and wide against a pale, overcast sky, its faded sign flickering even in daylight. A row of half-dead shrubs lined the entrance, their leaves dusted with road grit.
“Jesus, what took you so long?”
From the front seat, the driver didn’t even turn around. “Mikey had to piss in Illinois.”
A few tired chuckles from the crew. Chloe didn’t smile.
Typical. The film crew never seemed to understand the meticulous hours and weeks that went into the schedule—the pre-interviews, the legal clearances, the narrative arcs mapped out like a thesis. To them, it was just another shoot.
She pushed the van door open before it had fully stopped.
“This is block filming,” she said, already moving. “We’ve got two days here, that’s it, and this is our primary subject. So be ready and make it count. I already checked in with the manager—papers are signed.”
The crew spilled out behind her in a loose, uneven wave. Cases thudded onto pavement. A boom operator—thin, hollow-eyed, perpetually chewing gum—slung his rig over his shoulder. A production assistant with a clipboard jogged to keep up, already flipping through call sheets.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of cheap air freshener and something older—stale carpet, maybe, or trapped humidity. The lighting was dim, yellowed, as if the bulbs had been replaced one at a time over decades.
As she led them down the hallway to the room, Chloe’s voice sharpened into command.
“I want B-roll of that,” she said, pointing to the carpet—blue and orange waves faded into a kind of sickly gray. “Get low angles. Make it feel… tired.”
The cameraman she’d grabbed—a broad-shouldered guy with a permanent squint named Luis—nodded, already adjusting his lens.
“Shots of the bed and couch too. Imperfect. Don’t clean anything up.”
A younger assistant hovered near the doorframe, unsure where to stand. Chloe barely looked at him.
“You’re with me,” she said, catching Luis’s sleeve and pulling him back. “We’re doing the intro outside. I want to make sure it fits with the narrative we’ve built.”
Behind them, the room filled with movement. Tripods snapping open. Cases unlatched. Someone testing audio—“check, check, one-two”—into a microphone that hummed.
From dropout to New York Times bestselling author in only a few years, Jasmine Kopernick became a fixation of American culture after a prominent actor and comedian named her in his suicide letter. The court case had consumed the media cycle for months—every network, every panel, every headline.
And then—nothing.
Not guilty of criminal negligence. Cleared of fraud. Released back into the world with no charges and no real answers. Evidence suggested she had never even slept with the dead man, despite numerous public appearances together.
Debate still lingered in the cultural air like smoke. Some called her a visionary. Others, a predator. Others still—something more complicated, harder to define.
Out front, the cold air carried the distant hum of traffic. Chloe positioned herself just off-center, the hotel rising behind her like a quiet witness.
“Rolling,” someone called.
She stepped forward as the camera tracked her.
“Within just a few years, Jasmine Kopernick went from a complete unknown dropout to a bestselling author. Better known as ‘DommyMommy,’ she is a polarizing figure in American culture.”
Her voice was steady, practiced—warm but edged with authority.
“It is here, at this hotel—” she gestured upward, fingers precise “—that the seed of her career was planted, when she met a man referred to only as ‘the First John.’”
She paused, staring gravely into the camera lens, then continued.
“Widely viewed as the cofounder of the DommyMommy movement, he has remained a figure shrouded in secrecy. Today, for the first time ever, he will speak on the record about his experience.”
She let the pause hang just long enough.
“Whether you believe in DommyMommy or hate her… you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”
“Cut.”
Chloe checked her watch immediately. “Reset. I think I need to speed up the intro.”
They ran it again. And again. Each time, she shaved seconds off, sharpened a phrase, adjusted her pacing. By the fifth take, her voice hit the exact rhythm she wanted—controlled, inevitable.
“Good,” she said finally, already turning back inside.
The hotel room had transformed.
Lights flooded the space, washing out the dingy walls into something almost neutral. The bedspread had been smoothed but not replaced. The couch angled slightly toward camera. Cables snaked across the floor in meticulous loops.
“Okay, listen up—eyes on me.”
The room quieted, one by one. Even the gum-chewing boom operator stopped.
“I know we went over this before we left the studio, but I want to emphasize: utmost confidentiality. Complete anonymity. This man has never spoken to the press directly.”
She let that settle.
“This is it, people.”
A few nods. Someone shifted their weight.
Chloe felt it then—that electricity in her chest.
This was it.
The year she would win an Emmy.
Not just a nominee.
A winner.
As the assistants pinned a microphone to the man’s shirt, Chloe watched him carefully.
She had expected… something else.
Instead, he looked painfully ordinary.
Gray hair, thinning at the crown. A face lined more by time than by drama. T-shirt, jeans, slip-on sneakers. The kind of man you’d pass in a grocery store without a second glance.
He could have been her father.
She stepped forward, softening her tone.
“We can take a break at any time. Just ask. We have drinks, snacks, a restroom—anything you need.”
She gestured lightly toward the crew.
“And it’s just us. Ignore the cameras. Think of it like hanging out with a friend.”
He shifted, accommodating the assistant adjusting his mic. No visible nerves. No trembling hands. No darting eyes.
“Now, the lighting casts a shadow over your face,” she continued, “but in editing we’ll darken it further and alter your voice. Totally anonymous. No names.”
“Good.” His voice was calm. “I don’t want this to… affect my real life.”
Something in that phrasing caught her, but she moved past it.
“Finally, we’ll start with some easy questions. Just to get you comfortable. These usually won’t make the final cut. We’ll build up from there. Sound good?”
“Yes.”
The clapboard snapped.
“Action.”
“Start easy for me. Tell me a little about yourself. What do you do with your time?”
“Oh, probably too much,” he chuckled, rubbing his knee. “I’m basically retired. Woodworking, art, sculptures. Lots of reading. Basic stuff.”
The boom operator leaned slightly closer. The camera tightened its frame.
“And you were a Boy Scout?”
“Yes. A long time ago.”
“Where did you last go on vacation?”
He paused longer this time.
“I don’t know if I really vacation. I’ve seen things. Done things. But vacation? Like a cruise or a beach? Not me.”
Chloe nodded, already transitioning.
“Okay, we’re going to ramp up now.”
She glanced at her notes.
“We’re here, in the place you first met Jasmine. What was your first impression of her?”
“She seemed sweet. Nice.” A faint smile. “I liked her. I liked her a lot.”
His eyes drifted—not evasive, but inward.
“According to her account, for two years you only met to talk, cuddle, and similar activities. Is that accurate?”
“Everything she’s said… is accurate. We can focus on other stuff.”
That landed heavier than expected.
Chloe’s eyebrow lifted slightly.
“Everything? Everything about you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “It’s all true.”
Behind the camera, someone shifted.
Yes, he had been humiliated. Yes, controlled. Yes, reshaped.
And yes—he believed it had helped him.
The shape of the story refused to bend.
“One moment, please.” She shuffled through her notes, searching for a particular section.
“She describes you, early on, as weak. Low self-esteem.” she paused, glanced at his face, then continued, “The kind of man who put women on a pedestal. Overly reliant on authority. Drawn to punishment, pain, servitude. Is that fair?”
“Hm.” He considered it. “The weak part, sure. Early on. But later? No. Once things changed between us, I wasn’t like that anymore. Her book talks about the shift in me. The rest of that… yeah. That’s accurate.”
Chloe glanced back to her notes.
“In her book, she says she bound you. Spanked you. Used you as furniture. Made you crawl. That accurate?”
John rocked his head slightly back and forth, as if taking inventory.
“There was a lot more than that. But everything you said was accurate.”
“And she calls it therapeutic. Are you agreeing with that as well?”
“When Jasmine announced the breakup, a lot of rumors followed. Your relapse. Her hurting you. Your doubts about the movement. What actually happened?”
His brow furrowed into deep lines as he looked down at the floor. After a sharp inhale, he answered:
“I’m an alcoholic. Relapsing is something we sometimes do. I drank before I met Jasmine. I was sober when we met. I’m sober now. She really isn’t part of my sobriety.”
“What was it, then? Her statement said it was amicable and mutual. Was it? Why did it end?”
“It was. Not that I loved all of it. I was concerned about how public her work was—her face and name tied to it. The fame… it made it hard to just live and be together. If it were up to me, it would have been completely anonymous. No names or faces in the media.”
“Did she choose fame over you?”
“No. No, I let her pursue her calling.”
“But the publicity bothered you,” Chloe said, lowering her voice slightly.
“Yes.”
“Then what was it like watching her move on with Chance Darrick?”
“You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“No doubt at all?”
He didn’t hesitate. “No doubt.”
“Interesting. You are considered the cofounder of the DommyMommy theory and lifestyle. How does that make you feel?”
“I’m not really a cofounder. I just happened to be there when it was founded. I’m a witness. A participant. I can’t claim ownership.”
“You defend it. You helped shape it. Why not own that?”
He shook his head. “Jasmine wouldn’t like me saying this… but I don’t know about cofounder. She came up with it. But the people who actually live that way, day to day... that’s what turned it into something real. “
“What about the court cases? Charges of fraud? Criminal negligence?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “She was found innocent in all of those instances.”
“But her own accounts with you were used as evidence for the prosecution. At any point did you feel the need to become involved?”
“Her lawyers didn’t seem to need me.”
“And the prosecution?”
“They were misguided. That’s why they couldn’t prove it.”
Chloe made a small circling motion with her finger toward production. “One moment. Let’s take a fifteen-minute break. Restroom, water, stretch your legs.”
Boom mics lowered. Cameramen immediately reached for their phones, posture collapsing out of performance. John took a sip of water.
Chloe flipped through her notes, quickly eliminating questions that no longer seemed relevant. She had anticipated that Jasmine had embellished—or outright lied. Now it seemed as though John was corroborating everything. Even the efficacy.
As everyone settled back into place, she leaned toward him.
“This is your chance, John. People already think they know this story. You can correct the record now.”
She placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. She had already begun editing this in her head. And it wasn’t cutting the way she needed.
“Yeah. My story. Okay.”
The clapboard snapped again. They were rolling.
“Did Jasmine ever hurt you?”
“Of course she did. You read the book, yes?”
“Is there anything she did that hurt you that wasn’t in the book?”
He traced a finger around his knee, thoughtful. “She got to know me really well. Better than anyone else in my life. Saw me. Really saw me. But she still underestimated me. I don’t think she ever got to the bottom of my soul like she thought she did.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“Hm… we’re two sides of the same coin. She didn’t really look at herself that way. Not close. So I don’t think she knew how to look at that in me either.”
“I’ve interviewed Dr. Timothy Morrison many times. He’s expressed great concern for your psychological well-being after Jasmine. Have you seen the psychological profile he wrote about you?”
“I’ve read it. Who wouldn’t?”
“What are your thoughts?”
“Well, I didn’t fall apart, return to prison, go on back-to-back benders, or go back to my sexual relationship with Jasmine.”
“After the separation, did you seek out other women to dominate you?”
His head snapped, shaking violently. “No. No. No one is like her.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, you sound like a man still in love.” Chloe touched a finger lightly to her lips, offering an empathetic smile.
“I am. I miss her. The taste of her spit. The arches of her feet. The smell of her armpits at the end of the day. The little sounds she made when she slept. The… evil little things she would think up.”
His voice wandered, dreamy, almost reverent.
Chloe narrowed her eyes.
“So nothing about it was damaging? Not once?”
“No.”
Silence settled over the room, heavy and wrong.
She could feel the Emmy slipping away.
She had made pop stars cry, pastors confess affairs, actors unravel on camera—yet here she was, being stonewalled by a man who refused to break in the expected way. The interview felt eerily familiar, like the many times she had sat across from Jasmine.
It was time to pivot.
If she couldn’t expose contradiction, maybe she could reframe the narrative—focus on influence, dependency, the possibility of manipulation. Let the audience draw its own conclusions.
“Have you seen Jasmine since the separation?”
“Of course. She’s everywhere now—on TV, in magazines, online. Everywhere.”
“Have you gotten over her?”
“Hm…” He closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know if anyone ever gets over someone like that. Not when they become a part of you. It’s like losing an arm. You accept it. You acclimate. But you’re not… just over it.”
“One more question, and then we’ll take a break.”
John nodded.
“I’m interviewing Jasmine next week. Do you have a message for her?”
“I do.”
He stood, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out what appeared to be a photograph. He placed it into her outstretched hand.
Chloe examined it. A nude female figure—something like an old sculpture, classical in style.
“Can this”—she held up the glossy paper—“be shown on camera? On the record?”
“Yeah. But I think only she would understand it.”
Chloe held the image a moment longer than necessary.
Not because she understood it, but because she couldn’t.
Maybe this still could be the year. The Emmy was still within reach.
And yet, beneath that thought, small and almost imperceptible, was the feeling that something had slipped past her unnoticed.
The story he told wasn’t the one she wanted.
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