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.

Eleonora hit the pavement of the alley hard. The impact jarred her spine, shooting a bolt of pain up from her ankles to her skull. Muddy water splashed up, soaking the hem of her trench coat.

Chloe landed next to her, crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes. A stray cat hissed and bolted into the shadows.

Above them, the fourth-floor window was just a dark, empty square against the rainy sky.

"This way," Eleonora gasped. She grabbed Chloe's hand and pulled her toward the mouth of the alley.

The rain was a torrential sheet now. It blurred the streetlights into streaks of neon. Eleonora's lungs burned.

They burst out of the alley onto the main street. It was gridlock. Horns blared.

A sleek black SUV was idling at the curb, its hazard lights flashing.

"Is that our ride?" Chloe yelled. "Did you call a car?"

"Something like that," Eleonora said, not breaking stride. She yanked the back door open and shoved Chloe inside. She dove in after her, slamming the door shut.

The interior of the car was silent. It smelled of expensive leather and cedarwood. It was warm.

"Drive!" Eleonora yelled at the partition. "Just drive!"

The car didn't move.

Eleonora slapped the glass divider. "I'm on a schedule. Go!"

"Are you?"

The voice came from beside her. It was deep, baritone, and vibrated with a terrifying calmness.

Eleonora froze. She turned her head slowly.

Sitting in the shadows of the backseat, legs crossed, was a man.

The streetlamp outside cast a slice of light across his face.

It was the face from the photograph. The face she had just stamped with "SCUMBAG."

Kristopher Schaefer.

He was looking at her with an expression that was hard to read. It wasn't anger. It was curiosity mixed with disdain.

Eleonora's breath hitched. She pressed her back against the door, trying to put as much distance between them as possible.

"You," she whispered.

Kristopher didn't answer. He looked out the window.

He pressed a button on the armrest. The tinted window rolled down three inches, revealing a second black SUV pulling up behind them, effectively blocking the alley's exit.

He didn't need to look for a non-existent pursuer. He was the one doing the hunting.

Kristopher rolled the window up.

"Drive," he said to the driver.

The car glided forward, smooth as silk.

Chloe, huddled on the other side of Eleonora, whispered, "This is a really nice car service."

Eleonora reached over and pinched Chloe's leg. Hard.

"Ouch!"

Kristopher pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out to Eleonora. She was dripping wet. Her hair was plastered to her skull.

"Take it," he said.

Eleonora stared at the white square of fabric. "You know who I am."

"You are the woman who just announced to the world that I am a parasite," Kristopher said. His tone was conversational, which made it worse. "And you are also my wife."

Chloe choked on her own spit. "Wife?"

Kristopher ignored Chloe. He kept his eyes on Eleonora. "An interesting career choice, Eleonora. I wasn't aware the trust fund was insufficient."

"It was a calculated market correction," Eleonora said. Her voice shook, but she lifted her chin. "Your stock was overvalued."

Kristopher leaned in. The scent of cedarwood intensified. He was too close. "A mistake? You called me a scumbag. To a million people."

"I was speaking about a pattern of corporate malfeasance."

"The court of public opinion doesn't care about context," Kristopher said. "And neither do my shareholders."

"I'll issue a retraction."

"A retraction won't fix the stock price." Kristopher sat back. "You are coming with me."

"I'm not going anywhere with you. I want a divorce."

Kristopher laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound. "A divorce? No. That would be too easy. You owe me, Eleonora. And I intend to collect."

The silence in the car was heavier than the rain outside. Eleonora tried to check her phone, but the signal bars were empty. A jammer. Of course.

She looked at Kristopher. He had his eyes closed, his head resting against the leather seat. He looked peaceful, which was infuriating.

The car slowed. They passed through a massive wrought-iron gate. A long, winding driveway lined with ancient oaks led up to a house that looked more like a museum than a home.

The Schaefer Estate.

"Is this a hotel?" Chloe whispered.

Arthur, from the front seat, turned slightly. "This is the Schaefer family residence, Miss."

Eleonora felt a cold knot in her stomach. She was trapped.

The car stopped under the portico. A phalanx of staff with umbrellas waited.

Kristopher got out. He didn't look back. He walked up the stairs with the easy arrogance of a king entering his castle.

A footman opened Eleonora's door. "Madam."

Chloe's eyes went wide. "Madam?"

Eleonora gave her a look that said later. She stepped out into the humid night air.

They entered the foyer. It was cavernous, with a chandelier the size of a small car.

"Well, well. If it isn't the internet sensation."

The voice was sharp, cracking like a whip.

An elderly woman in a wheelchair rolled forward. Her silver hair was coiffed to perfection. She held an iPad in her lap.

"Grandmother," Kristopher said, pausing. "You should be asleep."

Beatrice Schaefer tapped the screen of her iPad. Eleonora's voice tinny and distorted, echoed in the marble hall. "This is a man who relies on other people's money..."

Beatrice cackled. "I haven't laughed this hard since your grandfather fell into the koi pond in '98."

Kristopher sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "She is destroying the company image, Grandmother."

"Oh, pish," Beatrice waved a hand. "The stock took a nosedive, but the trading volume is through the roof! People think you're relevant again. They think you have a scandalous personal life. It makes you human."

Eleonora stood there, dripping water onto the priceless rug. She didn't know whether to bow or run.

Beatrice beckoned her. "Come here, child."

Eleonora walked over. Beatrice grabbed her hand. Her skin was paper-thin but her grip was iron.

"You have guts," Beatrice said. "Kristopher needs someone with guts. He's become a bore."

"Grandmother," Kristopher warned.

"She's soaking wet!" Beatrice shouted at the staff. "Get her to the master suite. Draw a bath. Use the rose oil."

" The guest room," Kristopher corrected. "She is staying in the guest room."

Beatrice clutched her chest. She let out a dramatic gasp. "My heart... the palpitations... knowing my family is estranged under my own roof..."

Kristopher gritted his teeth. His jaw muscle jumped. He looked at the butler.

"Fine," he snapped. "The suite. The adjoining room."

Beatrice winked at Eleonora.

Eleonora was ushered up the grand staircase. She glanced back. Kristopher was watching her.

His eyes were dark. Predatory.

This isn't over, his look said.

Eleonora shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.