Intoxicated || An Eminem Fanfiction

Chapter 85

Marshall's POV

The weight in the room wasn't just from the last twenty-four hours. It was from all of it—every headline, every whisper, every manufactured scandal designed to rip her apart piece by piece.

Leila was curled up at the far end of the couch, her body tense, spine rigid against the cushions like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. The phone rested in her lap, screen dark, untouched, but I knew the words were still there. Waiting.

She hadn't posted yet.

She just sat there, staring at it like it was a ticking bomb, one she'd have to detonate herself.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, watching her. She looked like she was carrying the weight of every headline, every rumor, every lie they'd ever thrown at her—and I knew what that kind of exhaustion felt like. It wasn't just being tired. It was being gutted, picked apart, rewritten by people who didn't know a single fucking thing about you.

They didn't just want to twist her story. They wanted to erase her from it.

She sat there, curled up at the far end of the couch, staring at her phone like it was something she could will into submission. The screen was dark, untouched, but I knew what was on it. The words waiting to be unleashed.

She hadn't posted yet.

"You don't have to do it," I muttered.

Her head turned slightly, but she didn't look at me. "Yeah, I do."

I exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down my face. "You don't owe these people shit, Lala. They're gonna talk regardless of what you say."

She scoffed, finally meeting my gaze, her brown eyes sharp despite how drained she looked. "And what, you think me saying nothing makes it better?"

"No," I said, my voice steady. "I think it makes you smarter than them. You don't let them set the narrative. You don't play into their hands."

She let out a low, bitter laugh. "Marshall, they don't want a fire. They want a funeral. They want to bury me."

My jaw clenched, anger creeping up my spine like a slow burn. She wasn't wrong. And the worst part? I'd seen this play out too many times before.

I'd watched them do it to me.

When they couldn't control you, when they couldn't break you, they turned you into a monster. A villain. Because it was easier than admitting they couldn't beat you.

"You know what I've learned in twenty-five years of this shit?" I asked, voice quiet but firm. "They only bury you if you let them. They want you to lay down, shut up, take it. You do that? You're dead in the water. You fight back? You make 'em regret ever opening their fucking mouths in the first place."

She didn't say anything, just kept staring at me, her fingers tightening around her phone.

"You think they ever wanted me to make it?" I pressed. "Think they didn't try to write me off a hundred times? Said I was done. Said I was a fraud. Said I was nothing without the drugs, without the controversy, without the chaos. And every single time, I reminded them who the fuck I was."

Her lips parted slightly, her throat bobbing as she swallowed.

"They don't get to define you," I continued, voice rough. "Not them. Not the media. Not the industry. Not some bitter ex-friend who wants her five minutes of fame. You set the record straight, or they'll write it for you."

She exhaled shakily, her nails tapping against the back of her phone.

"They want you to disappear," I murmured. "So make 'em watch while you rise instead."