Her Humiliation is His Marketing

Chapter Two: The Public Spectacle

The alley was cold, the rough brick scraping my bare skin as I crouched behind a dumpster, my arms wrapped uselessly around myself. My phone lay discarded on the ground, still buzzing with notifications—texts, voicemails, missed calls. Each one a potential trigger, a ticking bomb. My heart hammered, my breath shallow, as I tried to process the nightmare I’d stumbled into. I was Elise Harper, award-winning journalist, now reduced to a naked fugitive in the heart of Manhattan, every shred of dignity stripped away by Dr. Victor Kane’s cursed command.

The hour-long trance had left me a mile from Kane’s office, my clothes abandoned in that gleaming lobby. I’d strutted through Fifth Avenue, arms raised high, my body on display for hundreds—tourists snapping photos, businessmen gawking, kids pointing as their parents hurried them away. The memory burned, a visceral humiliation that churned my stomach. I’d been powerless, a marionette dancing to Kane’s invisible strings, my mind screaming while my body betrayed me with every confident, naked step.

I peeked out from the alley, scanning the street. A newsstand nearby displayed a tabloid with my face plastered across it, blurred just enough to skirt decency laws. The headline screamed: “STAR REPORTER’S SHOCKING PUBLIC STRIP!” My knees buckled. It hadn’t even been a day, and my ordeal was already a story. My colleagues at the Tribune—Sarah, Mark, even intern Jenny—had seen it. They’d seen me, every curve, every flaw, exposed for the world to judge. My phone buzzed again, and I flinched, terrified it was a call. It was a text from Sarah: Elise, call me. We need to talk about the story. The story. My story. My shame.

I needed to get home, to hide, to figure out how to undo this. I darted across the street, using a parked delivery van as cover, my bare feet slapping the pavement. A passerby whistled, and I bit back a sob, my face flaming. I was stranded, utterly ****, every glance from a stranger a reminder of my nakedness. I spotted a discarded newspaper and snatched it, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline, though it barely covered me.

My apartment was ten blocks away, an impossible gauntlet. I stuck to side streets, ducking behind cars and trash cans, but the city seemed to conspire against me. A group of teenagers spotted me, their laughter slicing through the air as they pulled out their phones. “It’s that reporter chick!” one yelled, and I ran, the newspaper slipping, my humiliation complete as their cameras captured every moment.

Then my phone rang.

The sound was a knife to my gut. I froze, my hands moving before I could stop them. The newspaper fell, and my clothes—none existed now—were irrelevant. My arms shot skyward, rigid and unyielding, as I stepped out from the shadows into the bustling intersection of 42nd Street. The world slowed, every eye turning to me. I walked, hips swaying, completely bare, through the sea of honking cars and flashing cameras. My mind shrieked, No, no, no! but my body obeyed Kane’s command with merciless precision, strutting like a runway model in a sick parody of confidence.

A news van screeched to a halt, its crew leaping out. I recognized the logo—my own network. Mark, my cameraman, stared, his lens trained on me. “Elise?” he mouthed, but he kept filming. Of course he did. This was the story of the year, and I was its unwilling star. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks, phones raised, live-streaming my degradation. I wanted to scream, to beg them to stop, but my lips stayed sealed, my arms locked high, my body exposed to their merciless scrutiny.

The trance lasted an hour, each minute an eternity. I marched through Times Square, the neon lights reflecting off my skin, my nakedness a beacon for every tourist and local. Billboards flashed above, and I knew my image would soon join them, a running joke on every news outlet. My colleagues, my friends, my family—they’d all see. My mother, watching CNN, would witness her daughter’s humiliation, again and again, looped on every channel. The thought crushed me, a weight heavier than the stares boring into my flesh.

When the spell broke, I collapsed on a side street, gasping, my arms finally mine again. I curled into a ball, sobbing, but there was no cover, no escape. My clothes were gone, left wherever I’d been when the call triggered me. My phone, still clutched in my hand, showed the caller: Sarah. My editor. She’d called during a live broadcast, knowing what would happen. They all knew. The Tribune was milking my torment for ratings, my career now a circus act for their profit.

I staggered to my feet, my body trembling, my mind a haze of shame and rage. I was powerless, a prisoner to Kane’s trigger, and the world was watching, eager for the next show. Another call could come any second, and I’d be naked again, strutting for their amusement, stranded in public with nothing but my humiliation to clothe me. I needed to find Kane, to beg, to threaten—anything to break this curse. But deep down, a sickening truth gnawed at me: he’d won, and my life, my dignity, was his to display, over and over, for as long as he chose.