Jasmine's POV
My phone was on 15% and overheating in my palm, but I couldn't stop doomscrolling.
#EricRossLawsuit was trending. Number four in the U.S. Two hashtags below a rapper's leaked sex tape and one above a congressional scandal.
And Nala Murphey was right in the middle of it.
I tapped another thread.
"She made a name dragging celebs, now she's shocked when one bites back?"
"I'm sorry but if you're bold enough to talk reckless, be bold enough to lawyer up."
"I used to stan her, but this feels like clout chasing."
My jaw clenched. I DM'd three influencers I used to edit reels for—people who'd shouted out Nala few weeks ago like she was the second coming of media critique. I asked, politely at first, why their voices had gone quiet now that she actually needed support.
Nothing. Read receipts, no replies.
So I tried less politely.
I switched apps, opened Slack, and pinged two of the moderators for her fan server.
"Boost her old review on one of the parties in 'You Get Me'. The one where she actually breaks down why Eric was up to no good. Make it clear this isn't just gossip beef."
If the court wanted to twist this into defamation, fine. But we weren't going down without receipts.
When I finally set my phone down, I realized my coffee had gone cold.
I was supposed to be editing her new video, Nostalgia Night: The Fall of Teen Fame, but how the hell was I supposed to cut a funny voiceover about 2000s fashion when the person behind the mic was now being dragged in court?
My phone buzzed again. This time it was Nala's mom.
Mrs. Murphey:
What's going on Jaz? How's my baby doing?
Me:
We just arrived in court. She's okay, Mama. Shaken, but okay.
Mrs. Murphey:
Y'all didn't even tell me the date. I'm literally at the airport, but my flight was canceled. Bad weather. Her aunt called me from Alabama after seeing it on TikTok.
Me:
It all happened within seconds, and I'm still trying to get my head around everything that's happening. Once I get anything new, I promise to let you know asap.
Mrs. Murphey:
Alright dear. Tell my baby I love her. Tell her I'm praying and tell that lawyer of hers he better be on top of his shit.
Same.
I tossed my phone into my bag and just then. We were called into the court.
We were both 20 and broke, pretending to understand Final Cut Pro in a student editing lab. She'd said something about how she wanted to make media that "popped the bubble," and I'd laughed because I thought she was trying too hard. Then she showed me her first clip—a breakdown of "The Old Guard" and how it mirrored real-life microaggressions. Like that was a whole new take and brilliant. It was messy, the lighting was bad, but from then till the very now. I believed in her.
I offered to help edit the next one, and we've been climbing together since.
She was always had that fire in her, she didn't know that, so I became the polish. The person who deleted the ums, snipped the rants into rhythm, cleaned up the background noise when I was done freelancing.
I opened Instagram. Three brands had archived their collabs with her. One makeup label had quietly removed her as a tagged creator. No official statements. Just quiet erasure.
I screenshotted everything. Sent it Mama Nala and to a burner Google Drive we used for crisis management.
"They're ghosting her, but your numbers are growing. I don't think we should post anything rash. We'll rise."
No reply.
Another tab open: an email from a platform manager we'd worked with before. It read like a breakup text.
"We deeply value Nala's content, but given the circumstances, we'll need to pause upcoming features until the legal matter is resolved."
Code for: You're toast.
When I finally jumped out of my own thoughts I raised and saw Nala
Nala looked... small. Like someone had ironed the color out of her. Her navy blazer swallowed her frame. Her hair was pulled so tight it looked like it hurt. But her back was straight. Her chin was high. She looked like a woman trying to channel ten years of poise into one breath.
And then there was him.
Eric Freaking Ross.
Tall. Charcoal suit. That smirk you wanted to slap and kiss in equal measure. He lounged like he was in a lounge, not a courtroom. The audacity of his confidence made my skin crawl.
He didn't need to talk. He just was.
And it worked. The room bent toward him.
Nala caught my eye as she sat. Her lip twitched upward, just barely.
I nodded back. We don't break. Not in public.
After the hearing, I cornered Daniel Green by the vending machines. He was younger than I expected, like someone who still used TikTok unironically.
"You can't let him win."
He looked up from the bag of trail mix he was shaking.
"I'm sorry?"
"Eric. You can't let him win. He wants to drain her dry. This isn't about justice. It's ego."
Daniel blinked. "I'm doing everything I can."
"Then do more," I snapped. "Because while you're drafting polite rebuttals, he's running a PR machine. Brands are cutting her off. People are switching sides."
He inhaled slowly. "I understand your frustration. I really do. But law isn't TikTok. We can't clap back. We have to be deliberate. Precise."
"Deliberate doesn't go viral."
"And viral doesn't win cases."
I stared at him. He didn't flinch. Annoyingly calm.
Finally, I sighed. "Just... don't let her drown. She trusted you. I'm trusting you."
He nodded. "I won't let her drown."
I left without saying goodbye.
Outside, press cameras swiveled like vultures, snapping shots of Eric as he exited with his team. Leah, his lawyer, walked beside him in stilettos like she owned the sidewalk.
I didn't look for Nala. I knew she'd be slipping out the side entrance, coat over her head like shame was contagious.
I opened Twitter again.
The quote tweets were worse now.
"She should be lucky he even noticed her."
"This is what happens when you try to clout chase your way to relevance."
"Eric Ross is king."
I closed the app. My hands were shaking.
This wasn't cancel culture. This was a firing squad.