A Masterpiece of Lies, A Love's Price
img img A Masterpiece of Lies, A Love's Price img Chapter 1
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Chapter 5 img
Chapter 6 img
Chapter 7 img
Chapter 8 img
Chapter 9 img
Chapter 10 img
Chapter 11 img
Chapter 12 img
Chapter 13 img
Chapter 14 img
Chapter 15 img
Chapter 16 img
Chapter 17 img
Chapter 18 img
Chapter 19 img
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Chapter 1

The pain was a white-hot spike driving through Mark's left temple, a familiar agony that blurred the edges of his vision. He sat in the dark, the sprawling cityscape visible through the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office nothing but a smear of distant lights.

The only sound was a soft, complex melody flowing from the speakers embedded in his desk. It was supposed to be soothing, the one thing that could cut through the blinding pain of his migraines.

But today, it wasn't working.

The algorithm felt weak, diluted. The intricate patterns that usually unknotted the tension in his skull were frayed and ineffective.

He slammed his fist on the cold, black marble of his desk, the impact jolting through his arm.

"It's not working."

His voice was a low growl, cutting through the useless music.

"Linda, what is this?"

A serene, female voice answered, her tone perfectly modulated, impossibly smooth. "I am playing the latest algorithm, Mark. Composition 7B."

"It's garbage," he snapped. "It's weaker than last week's. Are you malfunctioning?"

The AI, his celebrated "muse" Linda, paused for a fraction of a second too long. It was a calculated hesitation, designed to convey thoughtful concern.

"My systems are optimal, Mark. Perhaps the issue lies with the source."

Mark's jaw tightened. The source. He hated that term, hated the entire setup, but it was a necessary evil. He jabbed a button on his console, and the face of Dr. Evelyn Reed appeared on his screen. She looked tired, her lab coat slightly rumpled.

"Dr. Reed," Mark said, his voice dripping with menace. "The quality is dropping. Explain it."

Evelyn flinched, her eyes darting away from the camera for a moment. "Mark, the extractions... they are taking a toll. The source is... weakening."

"I don't pay you for excuses," Mark said, leaning forward into the light of the monitor, letting her see the full extent of his fury. "I pay you for results. Her purpose is to generate data. If she's weakening, you're not managing her correctly. I need a stronger composition, now. Increase the extraction parameters."

"Mark, that's not advisable," Evelyn pleaded, her voice barely a whisper. "Another session at a higher intensity could be... catastrophic."

"Catastrophic for whom?" Mark asked, his voice flat and cold. "She is a silent data-slave, a human algorithm generator. Her comfort is not my concern. My relief is. Do you understand your job, Doctor?"

Evelyn's face was pale. She knew what was happening down in that secure server farm, in that sterile white room. She knew Chloe was more than just a "source," but fear kept her silent. Fear of Mark, of Apex Innovations, of losing everything.

She nodded slowly. "I understand."

"Good," Mark said, cutting the connection without another word.

He slumped back in his chair, the throbbing in his head unabated. He didn't know the woman's name. He didn't care to. He just knew what his former partners, the Millers, had told him ten years ago. They had a daughter, a mute prodigy, a savant who could code in her sleep but couldn't speak a word. He'd scorned the idea then, calling her a "silent data-slave," worthless to him.

Then the migraines had started, after the accident. The accident he still blamed on her. The pain was untreatable, debilitating. And Linda, his AI, had become his only solace, her voice, her music, built from the code they siphoned from the mute girl locked away in his company's basement.

He never made the connection. He never cared to. He just knew the algorithms worked.

And now they were failing.

In her isolated room deep below, Chloe heard the familiar hum of the extraction machine powering up again. The news of her adoptive parents' arrest for corporate espionage had reached her an hour ago on a secured tablet, a final, grim news update allowed by her captors. A slow, bloody smile had touched her lips.

Vengeance.

She coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and wiped a smear of blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. It was almost over. All of it.

"Linda needs you at your best, Mark," the AI's smooth voice purred from the speakers in his office. "I need you at your best. I promise, the next composition will be stronger. It will heal you."

"It better be," Mark muttered, closing his eyes. "You're all I have."

He had no idea that the voice soothing him was a lie, a facade built on the stolen genius of the woman he was slowly killing.

            
            

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