(Diddy, in Delusion)
“It’s Puff. Mr. Love. They say I’m indicted — again. Some wild list of charges I can’t pronounce without a lawyer present, but I’m not worried. I built Bad Boy. I’ve danced through worse.
Cassie? Beautiful girl, not quite platinum material, but I gave her shine. She gave me trouble.
Capricorn? Couldn’t keep track of diamonds. Kid Cudi? One heartbreak, and he’s penning conspiracy novels.
Mia? I paid her well. She folded.
They’ve all got their stories now. Everybody’s memoiring. Should be a good read.”
Cassie: The Ghost in the Gold Room
I was 19. The industry’s darling, his muse, his mannequin. My name was a brand extension of his. Behind the champagne flutes and flashbulbs, I lived in silence. In hotel rooms, where his love meant cameras, strangers, pills. I said no — once. That was enough. He dragged me through a hallway, bruises blooming before my first album ever dropped.
When I tried to leave, he didn’t plead. He promised headlines. He promised tape leaks. He promised the end. I smiled through it all. That’s what we did in the spotlight.
But behind my teeth: panic, numbness, planning. I didn’t escape for love. I escaped for breath. I’m not his pretty prodigy anymore.
I’m Cassie. I survived the empire.
Capricorn Clark: Branding Director, Unofficial Bodyguard
My welcome package was a death threat. “If anything happens to me, I’ll kill you.”
From intern to global director — sounds like a fairytale. But I lived in a fortress with a tyrant. When jewelry went missing, he locked me in for five days. No explanation. No phone. When Cassie dated Cudi, they sent men with guns. They told me to help arrange a murder.
I watched him kick Cassie. I cleaned blood off his legacy.
We called it branding. But it was cover-up.
Black women like me don’t get to run. We endure. We deliver. Until we snap.
This is my snap.
Kid Cudi: The Friendly Fire
It was a quiet relationship. Me and Cassie. Soft, sacred. Then he found out. Puff. Love. Call him what you like — he threatened my life. Cassie texted me the night he attacked her with a corkscrew. She ran barefoot, terrified.
We switched to burner phones. Weeks later, my house was broken into. My Porsche? Torched. My dog? Locked up in the basement. And his legal team? They say I made it up. A sad man with stories. Maybe.
Or maybe I just lived through a music industry horror flick with a billionaire villain.
Mia: The Witness Without a Name
Eight years as his assistant. No clock-out, no consent. I was a fixer, a ghost, a therapist.
I couldn’t shut my door. I couldn’t leave. Some nights, he hugged me like a brother. Other nights, he raped me. Then smiled over eggs the next morning. He dumped ice on me in winter. Called it motivation.
I watched Cassie fall apart and stitched myself back together in secret. I had no voice. Until now. If this story sounds messy, good. Survival always is.
(Diddy Again, in Denial)
They’re all so dramatic, aren’t they? I built culture. Fed families. If feelings got hurt — welcome to the price of greatness.
That’s not abuse.
That’s just business.
That’s just… Love.”
