Chapter 2 2

Kristopher Schaefer adjusted his cufflink. It was platinum, understated, and worth more than the average American car. He sat at the head of the mahogany table in the penthouse conference room, his face a mask of barely concealed tension.

Across from him, the journalist from the Financial Times was sweating. Kristopher could smell it-a sour, acrid scent that permeated the air-conditioned room.

"Mr. Schaefer," the journalist stammered, "there are rumors of liquidity issues. Regarding the merger with OmniCorp..."

The massive screen behind Kristopher, usually reserved for stock tickers and global heat maps, flickered.

It wasn't supposed to do that.

The image shifted. It cut to a live feed. A woman with dark hair and intense eyes was shouting.

Kristopher didn't turn around. He watched the reflection of the screen in the glass partition opposite him. He recognized the face instantly, though it was sharper, colder than he remembered.

He saw his own face appear on the screen.

He saw the red stamp.

SCUMBAG.

The audio was crisp. "This is a man who relies on other people's money to fund his lifestyle..."

The air in the conference room solidified. It became a physical weight, pressing down on everyone present.

Kristopher's left eye twitched. It was a microscopic movement, invisible to anyone who didn't know him intimately. But Arthur, standing by the door, saw it.

The journalist dropped his pen. His mouth hung open, a perfect 'O' of shock.

"Cut," Kristopher said.

The word was soft. It wasn't a shout. It was a blade slicing through silk.

Arthur scrambled for the remote. He didn't bother with the power button; he yanked the HDMI cable from the wall port. The screen went black.

But the image remained. It was burned into the retinas of everyone in the room.

Kristopher stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket. He smoothed the fabric over his torso as if brushing away a speck of dust.

"Get out," he said to the journalist.

"Mr. Schaefer, if I could just get a comment on-"

Two security guards materialized at the journalist's elbows. They lifted him out of the chair and escorted him to the door.

When the door clicked shut, the silence was deafening.

"Kill the account," Kristopher said. He walked to the window, looking out at the city that lay beneath him like a conquered beast. "I want that woman erased from the internet."

Arthur was tapping furiously on his tablet. Sweat beaded on his temples.

"Boss," Arthur said, his voice tight. "We can't just take it down. It's viral. It's trending number one on Twitter, TikTok, and Reddit. Schaefer Media stock just dropped seven percent in after-hours trading."

Kristopher turned. His eyes were like chips of ice.

"Then buy the platform," he said. "Shut it down."

Arthur swallowed hard. "Sir... there's something else."

"Speak."

"The tech team traced the IP address. It's a residential proxy in Lower Manhattan." Arthur hesitated. He held the tablet like a shield. "We ran a voice print analysis. And we cross-referenced the registration data with the family trust."

Kristopher's brow furrowed. "The trust?"

"The streamer... she's listed as a beneficiary. Under the spousal provision."

Kristopher stopped breathing for a second. The world tilted on its axis.

"Show me," he demanded.

Arthur handed him the tablet.

Name: Eleonora Flynn.

Status: Spouse.

Date of Registry: October 14, 2021.

Kristopher stared at the name. He remembered the arrangement. It was a business transaction, forced by his grandmother Beatrice to secure his position as CEO before his thirtieth birthday. He had signed the papers, met the woman once-a mousy, quiet thing in an ill-fitting dress-and then promptly forgotten her existence. She was supposed to be a silent partner. A ghost.

He looked at the screenshot of the woman on the stream. The fire in her eyes. The sharp, intelligent rage.

This was his wife?

The absurdity of it hit him in the chest. The woman tanking his stock price was living off his trust fund.

"Prepare the legal team," Kristopher said, tossing the tablet onto the table. "I want her in court for defamation."

"Sir," Arthur interjected softly. "If you sue her, you have to disclose her identity. The press will find out she's your wife. The merger..."

Kristopher froze.

If the board found out his own wife was leading a public crusade against him, the OmniCorp deal was dead. His reputation would be in tatters. His company would be bankrupt within the month.

He grabbed his coat.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked, jogging to keep up as Kristopher strode toward the private elevator.

"To the IP address," Kristopher said. He punched the button for the garage. "If I can't sue her, I'm going to silence her myself."

"You're going personally?"

"This is a family matter now, Arthur." Kristopher's lip curled. "And I haven't seen my dear wife in three years. It's time for a reunion."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him in a box of polished steel and cold fury.