Midas Protocol: Seducing My Rival's Wife

The air conditioning in the lawyer's conference room hummed with a low, mechanical drone that seemed to vibrate directly against Duke Zeller's skull.

It was freezing.

Manhattan was weeping rain outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a gray, miserable sheet of water that blurred the skyline, but inside, the temperature was artificial and sterile.

Duke stared down at the mahogany table.

The wood was polished to such a high sheen that he could see the distorted reflection of his own face-hollow cheeks, dark circles under his eyes, the look of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours.

His hand rested on the paper.

The divorce agreement.

He held the pen, a cheap plastic thing the receptionist had handed him because he didn't have one of his own.

His knuckles were white.

The skin over his joints was pulled so tight it looked like it might split.

He wasn't just holding the pen; he was strangling it.

Across the table, Linda refused to look at him.

She was staring out the window at the rain, her profile sharp and cold.

Her left hand was on the table, fingers drumming a nervous, silent rhythm.

The diamond on her ring finger caught the fluorescent light-a harsh, cold flash.

It wasn't the ring Duke had given her.

That ring, a modest band he had saved for six months to buy, was gone.

Replaced by a rock that probably cost more than Duke had made in the last five years combined.

The door to the conference room opened.

It didn't creak; it swung open with the smooth, heavy silence of expensive engineering.

Simon Thorne walked in.

The smell hit Duke before the man even spoke-a wave of Oud Wood and money, a cologne that smelled like a cedar forest burned down with hundred-dollar bills.

Simon didn't sit.

He didn't need to sit.

He walked behind Linda's chair and placed a hand on her shoulder.

It was a heavy, possessive grip.

His thumb rubbed against the fabric of her blouse, a casual, claiming motion that made Duke's stomach twist into a hard, painful knot.

Duke felt bile rise in his throat, mixed with a dark, cynical realization. He knew who Simon was. Everyone in finance knew who Simon Thorne was. He was the heir to Thorne Capital, a man whose face graced the society pages every other week. Usually next to his wife, Victoria.

That was the sickest part of it. Simon wasn't here to marry Linda. He couldn't. He was already married to a woman whose family name carried more weight than his own. Linda wasn't upgrading to "wife"; she was auditioning for the role of "permanent mistress," and she was too blinded by the diamond to see it. Or maybe she just didn't care.

"Let's wrap this up," Simon said.

His voice was smooth, bored, the tone of a man ordering a coffee he didn't really want but would drink anyway.

He checked his watch.

A Patek Philippe.

Duke recognized it from magazines he used to read in waiting rooms.

Simon made a small, clicking sound with his tongue, a noise of pure impatience.

"I have a lunch reservation at Le Bernardin in twenty minutes," Simon added, not looking at Duke, but looking at the paperwork as if it were a stain on the table.

Linda finally turned her head.

She looked at Duke, but her eyes didn't really see him.

They looked through him, past him, as if he were a ghost haunting a house she had already sold.

"Duke," she said.

Her voice was brittle.

"Don't drag this out. It's not good for anyone."

Duke looked at her, searching for something-anything.

A flicker of regret?

A memory of the nights they spent eating takeout on the floor of their first apartment?

A shadow of the woman who had promised to stick by him through sickness and health?

There was nothing.

Just a flat, gray wall of indifference.

"You can't afford me, Duke," she whispered, the words low enough that the lawyer in the corner couldn't hear, but loud enough to pierce Duke's chest like a serrated knife. "You can't even afford yourself right now."

The truth of it was physical.

It felt like a punch to the solar plexus.

Duke had lost his job as an analyst three weeks ago.

His savings were gone.

His rent was overdue.

He was wearing a suit that was three years old and slightly too tight across the shoulders because he couldn't afford a dry cleaner.

He took a breath.

The air in the room tasted like recycled oxygen and Simon's cologne.

Duke pressed the pen to the paper.

The tip dug into the fiber.

He signed his name.

Duke Zeller.

The ink bled slightly into the paper, a jagged, dark scar.

The lawyer, a man with a face like a crumpled napkin, slid the papers away the second Duke lifted the pen.

He moved fast, as if the document were radioactive.

"Done," the lawyer muttered, snapping a folder shut.

Simon smiled.

It wasn't a smile of happiness.

It was the smile of a predator who had just finished a meal and was picking his teeth.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card.

He flicked it across the table.

It spun and landed right in front of Duke's hands.

"If you get desperate," Simon said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "My assistant is looking for a doorman for one of my properties. It pays minimum wage, but hey, it's a living."

Duke stood up.

His chair scraped against the floor, a harsh, screeching sound that made everyone wince.

His fists were clenched at his sides.

Every muscle in his body screamed at him to lunge across the table.

To wipe that smirk off Simon's face.

To make him bleed.

But then the image of his bank account flashed in his mind.

Balance: $42.18.

Assault charges required bail money.

He didn't have bail money.

He didn't have anything.

Duke looked at Simon, then at Linda.

Linda was looking down at her hands again, twisting the new diamond ring.

She wouldn't even watch him leave.

Duke turned around.

He walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy on the plush carpet.

The elevator ride down was a blur of silence and the sound of his own heart hammering against his ribs.

Just before the doors closed, he looked back through the glass wall of the conference room.

He saw Simon bend down.

He saw Simon kiss Linda on the cheek.

Linda leaned into it.

The elevator doors slid shut, severing the image like a guillotine.

Duke walked out of the building and into the world.

The sky opened up.

The rain wasn't just falling; it was attacking.

Cold, icy water soaked through his jacket in seconds.

His hair was plastered to his forehead.

Water ran down his neck, sending shivers down his spine.

He didn't have an umbrella.

He stood on the corner of 5th Avenue, shivering.

People rushed past him with black umbrellas, bumping into his shoulders, cursing him for standing in the way.

His pocket vibrated.

He pulled out his phone.

The screen was wet, droplets distorting the light.

A text message from his landlord.

Pack your things. I want the keys by tonight or I'm calling the cops.

Duke stared at the message.

The water soaked into his shoes, his socks turning into cold, wet sponges.

He was thirty years old.

He was single.

He was unemployed.

He was homeless.

He looked up at the gray sky, letting the rain hit his face, mixing with the heat of the anger that was boiling his blood.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to roar until his throat bled.

But he just stood there, a drowned rat in a city of lions.

Suddenly, his phone hissed.

A bright, golden light exploded from the screen.

It was blinding in the gray afternoon.

Duke blinked, wiping the water off the glass with his thumb.

System Error?

No.

A black bar appeared across the screen.

Midas Protocol Installing... 99%

Duke frowned.

He tapped the home button.

Nothing.

He tried to turn it off.

Nothing.

The rain fell harder, drumming against the phone case.

100%

The bar disappeared.

A new icon sat in the center of his screen.

Black background.

Gold trim.

A stylized letter 'M' that looked like a crown, or maybe jagged teeth.

Duke's thumb hovered over it.

A jolt of electricity, sharp and static, zapped his fingertip.

It traveled up his arm, straight into his chest, making his heart skip a beat.

It wasn't just a shock.

It felt like a handshake.

Duke pounded on the door of the apartment in Queens.

His fist was heavy, his arm numb from the cold.

He was shivering so violently his teeth were chattering, a rhythmic clicking sound inside his head.

The hallway smelled of cabbage and old cigarettes.

The door swung open.

Gus stood there, wearing a faded band t-shirt and boxer briefs, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth.

His eyes went wide.

"Jesus, Duke," Gus mumbled, spitting toothpaste into his hand. "You look like you swam across the East River."

He grabbed Duke by the arm and hauled him inside.

The apartment was small.

Claustrophobic.

Stacks of pizza boxes leaned against the wall like the Tower of Pisa.

A TV was blaring a rerun of Friends in the corner.

Duke collapsed onto the beige sofa.

The fabric was rough and smelled of dust.

Gus threw a towel at his head.

It was scratchy and smelled like mildew, but it was dry.

Duke buried his face in it.

"She signed it?" Gus asked, his voice low.

Duke nodded into the towel.

"And the prick?"

"He offered me a job," Duke said, his voice muffled. "As a doorman."

Gus swore.

A long, creative string of profanities that involved Simon, a cactus, and several uncomfortable anatomical locations.

"Forget them," Gus said, pacing the tiny living room. "You crash here. As long as you need. My couch is your couch."

Duke lowered the towel.

"Thanks, G."

Gus went to his room to find a spare blanket.

The apartment went quiet, save for the laugh track from the TV.

Duke lay back.

His bones ached.

The exhaustion was a heavy blanket, pressing him down into the sagging cushions.

He pulled his phone out of his wet pocket.

The screen flickered.

The battery icon was red.

4%

But the icon was still there.

Midas Protocol.

It pulsed.

A slow, rhythmic golden glow that seemed to breathe.

Duke stared at it.

It looked like one of those stupid mobile games that advertised on Instagram.

Build your empire! become a billionaire!

He let out a dry, bitter laugh.

"Why not," he whispered to the empty room. "I've got nothing else to lose."

He tapped the icon.

The screen went black.

Then, gold text scrolled across the glass, elegant and sharp.

Welcome, User 001.

Poverty is a disease.

I am the cure.

Duke rolled his eyes.

"Great," he muttered. "A philosophy app."

The screen shifted.

A massive roulette wheel appeared.

It was beautifully rendered, the graphics sharper than anything his phone should be able to display.

New User Bonus: Spin to Initialize Capital.

The wheel spun before he even touched it.

Colors blurred.

Numbers whizzed by.

$10.

$500.

$50.

The wheel slowed.

It clicked.

Click. Click. Click.

It stopped on a sliver of gold.

$1,000,000.00 (Pending)

Duke stared.

He blinked.

"Right," he said, tossing the phone onto his chest. "And I'm the King of England."

The phone vibrated against his sternum.

He picked it up again.

A prompt box had appeared.

Please link a valid bank account to activate the funding channel.

Duke hesitated.

This was the scam.

This was the part where they drained your account.

He thought about his balance.

$42.18.

If they stole it, he wouldn't even be able to buy a bus ticket out of town.

But a strange, nihilistic urge took over him.

He was at the bottom of the well.

What did it matter if he dug an inch deeper?

His fingers moved on their own.

He typed in his Chase routing number.

He typed in his account number.

He hit Enter.

Verifying...

Integration Complete.

Funds will be cleared within 24 hours.

Duke snorted.

"Sure they will."

He hit the back button.

The main interface loaded.

It was sleek. Dark mode. Minimalist.

At the bottom, there was a tab labeled Inventory.

A red dot sat on it.

He tapped it.

A single digital card flipped over on the screen.

It looked like a tarot card, but instead of a magician or a fool, it depicted a woman with a sword and scales, her eyes blindfolded with barbed wire.

Nemesis Card

Rarity: Common

Description: Input the name of an enemy. The System will generate a customized vengeance algorithm.

Duke felt a chill that had nothing to do with his wet clothes.

The cursor blinked in the text box.

Name of Target.

Duke's thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He shouldn't.

It was a game.

A stupid, cruel game.

But the image of Simon's hand on Linda's shoulder burned in his mind.

The smell of that expensive cologne.

The offer to be a doorman.

Duke typed.

Simon Thorne.

He hit Execute.

The screen flashed red.

Target Locked.

Analyzing social graph...

Analyzing financial vulnerabilities...

Analyzing psych profile...

Algorithm generating...

The phone screen went black.

Dead battery.

Duke stared at the dark reflection of his own face in the glass.

He felt a strange sensation in his chest.

It was fear.

But underneath the fear, coiled like a snake in the dark, was excitement.

He tossed the phone onto the floor.

He pulled the scratchy blanket up to his chin.

Outside, a siren wailed, fading into the distance.

Duke closed his eyes.

That night, he dreamed he was standing on the roof of the Empire State Building.

The rain was falling, but it wasn't water.

It was gold coins.

And down on the street, far below, Simon Thorne was drowning in them.

Duke woke up with a groan.

His neck was stiff.

The couch spring was digging into his hip like a blunt knife.

Sunlight streamed through the grimy window, illuminating dancing dust motes in the air.

Gus was already up.

He tossed a bagel wrapped in foil at Duke.

It hit him in the chest.

"Eat," Gus said, holding a mug of coffee that smelled like burnt rubber. "You need the carbs."

Duke sat up, unwrapping the bagel.

It was stale, but he was starving.

"I was thinking," Gus said, sitting on the arm of a chair. "You should file for unemployment today. The website crashes if you wait until afternoon. And maybe... I don't know, take a few days before you look for anything else."

Duke nodded, chewing slowly.

"Yeah. Unemployment."

He looked at his phone on the floor.

It was plugged into Gus's charger.

He picked it up.

He pressed the power button.

The Apple logo appeared.

Then the home screen.

The phone started to vibrate.

It wasn't a normal buzz.

It was a continuous, angry spasm.

Notification after notification cascaded down the screen.

Emails.

Alerts.

And one text message from Chase Bank.

Duke's finger hovered over the glass.

He swiped.

Chase Fraud Alert: An inbound wire transfer of $1,000,000.00 has been detected from an offshore source. Account Frozen Pending Investigation.

Duke felt his stomach drop. Of course. It was a scam, or worse, money laundering. He was about to go to jail. He stared at the screen, panic rising in his throat, when the Midas Protocol app opened itself.

It didn't ask for permission. It just maximized.

A terminal window appeared over the banking app, lines of code scrolling faster than Duke could read.

_Intercepting SWIFT Protocol..._

_Injecting Shell Company Verification: 'Apex Consulting LLC'_

_Forging KYC Documentation..._

_Bypassing Federal Hold..._

The screen flashed green.

A second text popped up immediately after, overriding the first.

Chase: Transfer Verified. Funds Available. Thank you for banking with us.

Duke dropped the bagel.

It landed face down on the rug, cream cheese smearing into the fibers.

"Duke?" Gus asked. "You okay?"

Duke didn't answer.

He opened his banking app.

His hands were shaking so hard he mistyped his password twice.

Login Successful.

He stared at the number at the top of the screen.

Available Balance: $1,000,042.18

The comma.

The two commas.

He counted the zeros.

Six.

He felt lightheaded.

The room seemed to tilt.

"Duke!" Gus stood up. "You look like you're gonna puke."

Duke stood up abruptly.

"Bathroom," he choked out.

He scrambled into the tiny bathroom and slammed the door.

He locked it.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, breathing hard.

He refreshed the page.

Still there.

Refresh.

Still there.

$1,000,042.18

The Midas Protocol app sent a push notification.

System: Starter Capital Delivered. Don't spend it all on candy.

Duke laughed.

It was a hysterical, jagged sound.

He stood up and looked in the mirror.

His eyes were wide, frantic.

This wasn't a game. This wasn't just luck. The App had just hacked one of the biggest banks in the world in under three seconds. It had manufactured a reality where he was a legitimate millionaire.

He grabbed the sink, his knuckles turning white.

This was power.

This was a weapon.

He splashed cold water on his face, gasping as the chill hit his skin.

He needed to calm down.

He couldn't tell Gus.

A warning box flashed in his mind from the App's terms of service he had skimmed the night before.

Protocol Rule 1: Silence is Golden. Disclosure to non-users results in immediate account termination.

He dried his face with a towel that smelled like damp dog.

He took three deep breaths.

In. Out.

In. Out.

He unlocked the door.

Gus was standing right there, looking worried.

"Dude, seriously, are you sick?"

Duke forced a smile.

It felt tight and unnatural on his face.

"No," Duke said. "Just... checked an old crypto wallet. I had some leftover coins from years ago. They... uh... they went up a bit."

"Really?" Gus's face lit up. "Like how much? A couple hundred?"

Duke nodded. "Something like that. Enough to cover rent for a while."

Gus punched him on the shoulder.

"That's awesome, man! Pizza's on you tonight."

"Yeah," Duke said, his hand clutching the phone in his pocket. "Pizza's on me."

He looked around the cramped apartment.

He looked at the peeling paint on the walls.

"I'm going to head out for a bit," Duke said. "Need to... clear my head."

"Cool," Gus said, going back to the TV.

Duke grabbed his coat.

It was still damp from yesterday.

He walked out of the apartment building.

The sun was shining now.

The puddles on the sidewalk reflected the blue sky.

Duke pulled out his phone.

He opened the Midas Protocol.

He tapped on the Inventory.

The Nemesis Card was glowing.

Analysis Complete.

Target: Simon Thorne.

Primary Weakness: Narcissistic Personality Disorder / Double Life.

_Secondary Intel: Subject is currently maintaining a public engagement to Linda while legally married to Victoria Thorne. Exposure Risk: Critical._

Duke stopped walking. The air in his lungs turned to ice. He had suspected it, but seeing it confirmed in cold, digital text was different. Simon wasn't just a cheater; he was a sociopath juggling two lives. And Victoria-the legitimate wife-was the weak link.

Recommended Entry Point: Victoria Thorne (Wife).

Mission Generated: The Good Samaritan.

Objective: Establish contact with Victoria Thorne.

Reward: Access to 'Coincidence Generator' (One-time use).

Duke stared at the screen.

Using a woman.

Manipulating a wife to get to the husband.

It was dirty.

It was something Simon would do.

Duke closed his eyes and saw Linda's face again.

He saw the way she looked at Simon.

He saw the way Simon looked at him-like he was dirt.

Duke opened his eyes.

His eyes were hard.

He tapped Accept.