Chapter 2

Mark called a press conference. It wasn't enough to just give Sarah a promotion; he needed to make a spectacle of it. He stood at a podium, the Genesis Arts logo glowing behind him, a symbol of everything he had stolen.

"In light of her incredible performance and unwavering loyalty," Mark announced to the crowd of reporters, "I am promoting Sarah Vance to Chief Creative Officer and offering her a full partnership in Genesis Arts."

He was giving her my dream. He was bestowing my title, the one we had talked about for years, on the woman who held the knife as he twisted it. I watched the live stream from my cramped apartment, the screen's glow illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. A reporter in the front row, a veteran tech journalist named Arthur Chen, raised his hand. Chen had a reputation for being sharp and skeptical.

"Mr. Patterson," he began, his voice cutting through the polite applause, "Ms. Vance's background is in gallery curation, not technology or corporate security. Her sudden rise to a C-level position in a tech firm seems... unconventional. Are you sure this is a wise move for your shareholders?"

The question hung in the air, a welcome drop of acid in the sugary sweet celebration. I saw a flicker of annoyance cross Mark's face before he replaced it with his signature charismatic smile. He was disappointed that someone dared to question his perfect narrative.

"Arthur, you're thinking in old-world terms," Mark said, his tone patronizing.

"Genesis Arts isn't just a tech firm. It's the future of culture. Sarah doesn't just understand art; she understands power. She understands how to shape the narrative. That's more valuable than a dozen coders who can't see the big picture. We don't reward people based on dusty résumés. We reward them for loyalty and for results. Sarah delivered."

His arrogance was breathtaking. He was openly admitting that he valued sycophants over substance, loyalty to him over actual skill. He was spitting on the very idea of merit that the tech world claimed to hold so dear. Arthur Chen didn't look convinced. He scribbled a note, his expression grim. I could see the gears turning in his head. Mark's dismissive, self-important answer had not won him any friends.

The camera zoomed in on an older man in the front row, a man I recognized as Mr. Davies, the lead investor from the venture capital firm that had funded Genesis Arts. His face was a mask of cold fury. He had invested in a revolutionary AI technology, not in Mark's personal fiefdom where he handed out titles to his friends. The look on his face promised a difficult board meeting in Mark's future. Mark, blinded by his own brilliance, didn't seem to notice.

Despite the undercurrent of disapproval, the announcement was official. The next day, the papers were full of it. "A New Power Couple in Art and Tech." A formal notice went out, solidifying the partnership. An official announcement of their engagement followed a week later. They were throwing a party to celebrate.

From the safety of my anonymous digital perch, I saw it all. I saw the pictures they posted online: Sarah flashing a diamond ring, Mark with his arm possessively around her, both of them beaming with a smug, unearned victory. They were toasting with champagne, surrounded by the very people who had shut me out. They looked so happy, so untouchable.

I felt a cold, calm certainty settle over me. I wasn't heartbroken anymore. I wasn't even sad. I was watching a predator celebrate a successful hunt. I looked at their smiling faces, at the world they had built on my ruins, and I felt nothing but a quiet, chilling contempt. They thought this was their victory. They had no idea it was just the beginning of their end.

The night of their engagement party, I was sitting in the dark, my face lit only by my laptop screen. A message popped up on a secure, encrypted channel I had set up.

"You're quiet," it read. The sender was 'Wraith.'

I knew who it was. Mark. He had found me. Of course, he had. He was a talented programmer, and he knew my digital fingerprints. He must have been tracking me.

"Just watching the show," I typed back.

"I know you are, Chloe," he wrote. The tone was smug. "I know everything. I know you've been digging around in your father's old files. You think you've had some kind of rebirth, don't you? A second chance to get back at me."

My blood ran cold. He knew. The secret I thought gave me an edge, he knew about it.

"You think you're the only one who gets a second chance?" his next message read. "I've been here before, too, Chloe. In another life, you and your little algorithm made me a king. This time, I'm just cutting out the middleman."

The words didn't make sense. Another life? Was he insane? Or was he playing some kind of twisted game?

"I don't know what you're talking about," I typed, my fingers trembling slightly.

"Oh, I think you do," he replied. "But it doesn't matter. I'm offering you a chance. A place in my new world. I need someone to manage the 'legacy' artists, the human ones. It's a small role. A bit of a step down for you, I know. A charity case, really. But it's better than rotting in that apartment. You can be a part of my success, or you can be nothing. Your choice."

The offer was a slap in the face. A humiliating, pitiful crumb tossed from his table. He wasn't just trying to beat me. He was trying to own me, to make me a footnote in his story, a tamed pet in his golden cage.