As Samantha came down from the stage, a huge crowd of media, business tycoons, and politicians surged forward, microphones raised like weapons, flashes blinding in every direction. The air was electric, thick with anticipation and scandal.
"Miss Bradley! Miss Bradley—how did you know Shelly was behind all of this?" one reporter barked, his voice cutting through the noise.
Before Samantha could answer, another voice—female, sharp, from a woman in a crimson dress near the front—called out:
"Miss Bradley, over here! What if Shelly had a reason for what she did in the company? What if she wasn't betraying you, but protecting herself?"
The crowd murmured. A thousand camera flashes lit up the ballroom, each one freezing Samantha in a moment of pressure. But she didn't flinch. She lifted her head higher, the stage lights framing her face in a cold halo of authority.
Then another question pierced the air. "What if Shelly was sabotaged, Samantha? What if she's the real victim here?"
Samantha's gaze locked on the man who had spoken, a young reporter whose hands trembled as he held out his microphone. She turned her body slowly toward him, deliberate, making the space itself tighten with tension.
Her heels clicked once against the polished marble, the sound echoing through the hush. The man swallowed hard as she leaned slightly closer to the mic, her voice low, steady, and laced with steel.
"I don't jump into conclusions," she said. "I'm a woman of integrity. I move with facts, not feelings. And the evidence I have is conclusive. Every trail, every document, every signature—it all points to her. There is no shadow figure here. No unseen hand. Shelly was not sabotaged. Shelly made her choices."
The young reporter's throat bobbed as he stepped back, overwhelmed by the weight of her certainty.
But the barrage wasn't over. Another journalist shouted from the left side of the pack: "But Miss Bradley, you could have fired her the moment you discovered her betrayal! Why wait until tonight? Why wait for your own gala?"
The question hit the room like a spark. Heads turned. Phones lifted higher, streaming her every word live across the globe. Even the tycoons in tailored suits leaned forward now, eager to hear her defense.
Samantha's eyes swept the room before she answered, her poise unshaken. "Why tonight?" she repeated, her tone calm but resonant. "Because timing matters. Shelly chose to weave her lies in silence. She played her game behind closed doors. She thought secrecy would shield her. So I chose to end her in the light."
Gasps whispered across the room.
"I could have fired her privately," Samantha continued, her voice rising just enough to carry, "but that would have left doubt. Questions. Whispers of uncertainty in back rooms. Tonight, in front of you all, I ended it publicly. Because betrayal should not hide. It should be dragged into the open for the world to see. And let it be clear: Elevate will never bend to treachery, no matter who stands behind it."
The weight of her words landed heavy. Reporters exchanged glances, scrambling to record every line. Investors and politicians leaned closer, their faces etched with fascination, some with admiration, some with discomfort.
But Samantha wasn't done. She allowed a pause, a long inhale of silence that pulled every eye tighter onto her. Then she leaned into the microphone again, her voice dropping to something quieter, more dangerous.
"Shelly Monroe brought this upon herself. She dug her own hole in the lion's den. She thought she could crawl inside, play her games, and still walk out alive. But the rules don't work that way. Once you enter… there is no escape."
The room erupted.
Cameras flashed so fast it looked like lightning. Reporters shouted over one another, hurling new questions:
"Miss Bradley, do you have proof to show the board?"
"Will Elevate's stocks be impacted?"
"What's next for the company?"
"Who replaces Shelly Monroe?" "Miss Bradley—"
"Miss Bradley, answer this—"
"—is Elevate cooperating with regulatory bodies on—"
"You called her a—" a tabloid voice started, eager for blood.
Samantha cut him a glance that made his mouth go silent. When she continued, her tone didn't rise a millimeter. "I speak plainly when the stakes are high. What matters most are the facts and their consequences. Elevate has both."
A senator murmured to the chair of an energy committee. A Dubai sovereign fund manager watched her the way traders watch a market in motion. Behind the press, the ballroom kept breathing in small, expensive bursts.
From the perimeter, Jake took it all in—hands free, shoulders loose, eyes alert. People rarely noticed how much he saw when he wasn't speaking. He watched the crowd do its math. He watched Samantha never blink.
A light touch caught his wrist. "Can I have a word?" Chloe.
Jake turned. No surprise, no smile. "Now?"
"It'll be quick." She didn't wait for a yes, already angling them out of the crush and toward the corridor. Her perfume trailed—cool, expensive, disciplined. Past the gilded doorway, the noise quieted to a hum. They crossed to the covered parking lounge, where the air tasted like stone and night.
Jake leaned a shoulder to a pillar. Chloe stayed standing, chin lifted.
"Is she your girlfriend?" she asked.
He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Samantha?"
"You were staring at her. And smiling. Earlier."
"How long have we known each other?" he asked, not unkindly. "Two weeks?"
Chloe folded her arms. "So… yes or no?"
"It's business," he said. "Between me and her. You're not in it."
Silence pressed for a second. Her eyes slid past him to the far line of cars, then back. He'd seen that look in boardrooms—someone about to pivot to the thing they actually came for.
"How's Nadia?" he asked.