The mobile pet grooming truck was urban camouflage, its side panels chic enough to look invisible against the Luvia streetscape. Fletcher stepped through the rear doors, moving from the humid afternoon air into a pressurized, climate-controlled hub.
The sharp, rich scent of fresh-pressed coffee cut through the cool air, masking the faint smell of sweat. Two men sat in ergonomic chairs before a wall of liquid-crystal displays, their faces washed in the pale blue light of several live feeds.
"Talk to me," Fletcher said, his voice flat as he remained standing, the door sealing shut behind him with a dull, heavy thud.
"We're live, sir," the technician on the left said, gesturing to the primary monitor. "Those new long-range laser mics Brooke Corp finished developing are coming in handy. We've got them trained on the vibrations of the triple-pane glass in the kitchen and the living room. The software is scrubbing the wind interference in real-time. Audio is ninety-eight percent clear."
The screen showed a high-definition interior view of a privileged, well-kept home. On the center monitor, Sara was visible in the kitchen, her movements relaxed and unsuspecting as she moved between the counter and the table.
"And the visuals?" Fletcher asked.
"Hidden pinhole units in the exterior window frames," the second associate explained, tapping a command into a sleek, matte-black console. "Completely passive. No signals for a standard sweeper to pick up. We're seeing everything they do."
He handed Fletcher a lightweight, custom-molded earpiece. As Fletcher slotted it into place, the white noise of the truck's cooling system was replaced by the intimate, domestic sounds of a home. The house was made of deliberate perfection, every surface gleaming, the air likely thick with the scent of the hundreds of fresh lilies and peonies arranged in crystal vases. In the background, two maids in muted grey uniforms moved like ghosts, buffing marble and adjusting cushions with practiced, silent efficiency.
Sara was a splash of high-end athletic wear against the white-on-white decor, her designer sports bra and leggings hugging her slim frame.
"Baby! Where did you go?" she chirped, her face lighting up with genuine warmth as she threw herself into Jae's arms.
Jae entered the kitchen, a stack of mail in one hand. His eyes turned into crescents, the dull look disappearing instantly as he pulled her into his chest, giving her a deep, passionate kiss. Sara pulled back just an inch, smiling up at him, genuinely happy.
"How was it with Vivian?" he asked, his voice smooth but careful.
"Really good," she said, her voice bright. "I told her that she would be standing at the altar with me. So that's one thing off the list! Baby, there's just so much to do," she pouted.
Jae's posture stiffened. He let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck, the mail forgotten on the counter. He walked to the massive refrigerator and pulled out two bottles of water, handing one to her. "Tiny issue... are we sure about Vivian being a bridesmaid?"
"Yeah! Why?" Sara's smile faltered. "She's a really good friend." She thought Jae liked Vivian; they always seemed to get along well.
Jae felt like a dick, but this wedding was important. Not just marrying Sara, but the people who would be there were of high status. His boss would be coming; industry elites would be there. And Vivian was far too public. In a way, he thought was distasteful at times.
"I can't choose who you call a friend," Jae said, leaning against the counter. "I'm even okay with her attending," he promised, closing the distance between them. "But a bridesmaid? She's representing both of us. I don't think it's a good reflection, baby."
"What do you mean?" Sara's voice deflated. "You always get along with V. She's... one of my only friends." She said the last part quietly, a feeling of embarrassment blooming in her chest. She didn't have many true friends, which made Vivian special.
Jae pulled her back into his chest, rubbing her back soothingly. He felt bad to have to tell her this, but his mind was set. If it was either his affluent guests or Vivian, the choice was easy. "Let me show you something," he said, pulling away to open a video that had surfaced on his social media.
Sara rested her back against his chest as he held the phone up. The audio cut through—sharp, high-pitched, and dripping with infectious energy as a brightly lit video filled the screen. The setup was peak aesthetic: a cozy, warmly lit studio anchored by a vibrant, reddish-pink carpet. Britt and Bec, two young Black women, were tucked into massive, plush pink chairs, talking with a seamless, rapid-fire chemistry that made you feel like you were crashing a private group chat.
Britt, who had a flawless, intricate design shaved into her buzzed hair, was sitting completely sideways, her feet pulled up onto the velvet seat. She gripped her microphone like a trophy, leaning forward to address the lens with a huge grin. "Welcome back to The Clued In podcast! Where we give you everything you've been missing! And you will not believe what a viewer just sent us!"
Beside her, Bec—tossing out a mane of pin straight-blonde extensions that cascaded all the way down to her waist—was sat cross-legged, tapping her manicured nails rhythmically against her mic handle. She threw her head back, looking right at her partner. "For our audio listeners: in the image, you see Brennan Silver—Heartbreak King Brennan Silver—sharing a very cozy hug with your one and only A-list baddie—"
"And, I don't care what some basement-dwelling loser says," Britt interrupted, waving a dismissive hand at the camera while leaning back to get comfortable. "The girl is hot, the body is tea. And she bags every delicious celebrity."
"we don't slut-shame around here!" Bec let out a loud, infectious laugh, kicking her legs slightly over the arm of the chair. "Get all the men sis."
Britt giggled, leaning toward her partner to share a quick high-five. "We may not know her name, but we got the receipts—"
"Rumors are swirling that the two had an intimate dinner," Bec added, instantly snapping her gaze back to the camera and lowering her voice to a dramatic, gossipy whisper.
"Think lobster caviar and top-shelf booze. Brennan is no slouch," Britt cheered, snapping fingers in the air.
Bec clapped her hands together in agreement. "Preach! We heard it on the streets! They were talking about kids, house, dog. The whole damn thing!"
"We reached out because we nosy girls," Britt said, rolling her eyes in mock disappointment as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Radio silence."
Bec shook her head, leaning in closer to her own mic. "He's hot, but he's cold. Not a peep."
"Brennan has been tight-lipped, but we have plenty more," Britt promised, leaning in close to the lens with a teasing wink.
"Tune in to stay—" Bec teased, gesturing for the audience to get ready.
"Clued In!" they chorused together, flashing identical, blinding smiles as the outro graphic splashed over the screen.
Jae was a little annoyed by Sara's beaming smile. He'd showed her the Clued In podcast knowing that it was her favorite podcast on Opfeed, hoping it would make her understand the issue, but she just seemed excited that her friend was talked about on this podcast. He clicked on another video from one of the people he followed on the "Op".
The vibe flipped instantly, the bright colors of the previous clip replaced by a dark, moody frame. Four men were gathered around a sleek, matte-black table in a studio with pitch-black walls slashed by sharp lines of blue neon lighting. On the right side of the frame, a hyperactive live chat stream was running up the screen, a blur of fire emojis, skull icons, and peach emojis scrolling past at breakneck speed. The men sat before high-end broadcast microphones attached to heavy, extendable scissor-arms.
Dante, the main host, sat dead center. He reached out, deliberately wrapping his hand around the casing of his mic and pulling it an inch closer to his mouth to ensure his voice hit the lower registers with maximum volume. "Welcome back to The Alpha's Ledger. Dante here, with Jax. And boys... the simulation is fighting back."
Skipping past the intros, Jae fast-forwarded to the most important part of the video. The live chat on the screen flared with activity, messages popping up faster than the eye could track as Dante leaned forward again, adjusting the extendable arm with a tight grip, his knuckles rapping against the metal to punctuate his words.
"So, since I can't show you the photo, let me paint the picture for the Alpha Legion listening," Dante said, his expression hardening into a smug sneer. "It's the standard layout. She's leaning in. She looks like a classic Whore.' Fake tits, face full of fillers—you know the type, guys. The classic 'Skank' aesthetic." He threw his hands up, mapping out an exaggerated hourglass shape in the air before dropping his palms back to the table. "She's in some red dress, draped all over... him."
Across the table, Jax smirked and let out a loud snort, casually tapping his mic arm as he leaned back. "Brennan Silver. The 'Heartbreak douche.'"
The other two guys at the end of the table chuckled, one of them shaking his head and muttering a quiet, mocking agreement.
Dante grabbed his microphone with both hands this time, leaning in so close his mouth nearly brushed the foam windscreen, speaking with a patronizing, heavy authority to drown out the noise.
"Let's address the elephant in the room regarding that soy boy," Dante barked, pointing a finger aggressively at the camera lens. "The media is trying so hard to sell him as 'Alpha.' He's got the jawline, and the brooding look in his movies... but it's all BS. It's a performance. We all saw the interview last week where he practically cried talking about his 'feelings'." Dante threw his head back, rolling his eyes as he made a whining, crying sound that had the rest of the panel erupting into jeers. "That is not lion behavior."
Jax wrapped his hand around his own mic, pulling it forward with a jerk to cut in extra loud, matching the rising, aggressive energy in the room. "He's a Beta in Wolf's clothing. A total loser who just got lucky with a script."
"Exactly. He's a pretender," Dante agreed, letting go of the arm to wave a hand dismissively while the live chat on the screen went absolutely wild with spam. "And this bitch? She's not an A-list Baddie. Let's call her what she is: The Stool."
Jax let out a harsh laugh, thrusting his hips forward in a crude, vulgar gesture against the edge of the table before grabbing his mic again to project over the shouting of the other hosts. "Oof. 'The Stool.' That's rough, bro."
Dante leaned in one last time, his voice dropping into a smug, definitive growl directly into the capsule, his eyes locked onto the lens. "It's fact. She's what every—"
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. The kind of content that Jae watched for entertainment was a bunch of belligerent, stupid, mean bullies sitting at a round table as they discussed women like they were no better than inanimate objects they could stick their dicks in.
Sara pushed herself out of Jae's arms, creating a sharp distance between them, her face hardening with anger. "This is the kind of filth you find funny?"
"What, no baby—" He didn't understand how this conversation had suddenly flipped from Vivian being an inappropriate bridesmaid to a referendum on the types of videos he was allowed to watch.
"There is nothing wrong with Vivian. And everything wrong with you." She felt as if she was seeing Jae in a vastly different light that didn't make any sense. He had always been respectful and sweet. So how could he watch such videos as if these sickos' thoughts were his own?
"Baby, baby please just listen to me. I do not think that way. That is not something I agree with," Jae said as he closed his phone and dropped it on the countertop. "This is just what people are saying about her. Not me. I don't feel this way." He tried to defend himself and his point of view.
"What's the problem with her having a social life? You're sounding... really fucking judgy right now."
"Babe, you know it's not like that," Jae said, trying to reel her in. "At our wedding, people from work—" He felt like pulling out his hair. He hadn't known; he'd just kicked a hornet's nest.
"This is our wedding! Not a networking event!" Sara snapped. "I want my friend there. And I don't care what anybody thinks about her!!"
"Sara! You know I think she's cool, I just—"
"You sound like a manisphere weirdo, and I don't like this side of you. It's my least favorite thing." Pouting, Sara grabbed her water and marched out to go for a jog.
Jae turned to the maid who was placing a fresh pot of flowers on the kitchen island. "I don't even understand why she's mad at me," he muttered. "I didn't say anything! It's the video... Right?"
The maid gave him a tight, silent smile. She knew better than to answer a loaded question, especially when Ms. Sara was eccentric herself.
"Whatever. I'm heading out to the jewelry store," Jae said. "If she's back before me, tell her I'll be home in an hour."
"Yes, sir." She knew Ms. Sara's mood would increase exponentially once he returned with jewelry.
Fletcher pulled the earpiece out. "Source that video," he commanded. "I want the original upload time and metrics."
The technician's fingers blurred across the keyboard. "Original upload was eight minutes and twelve seconds ago, sir. It's sitting at under a thousand views, and climbing."
Fletcher pulled his phone from his interior pocket, composing a message to Gunner.
Fletcher: Sir, a digital story regarding Ms. Kane has just been published by a secondary gossip outlet, the Clued In podcast, and The Alpha Ledger. One features high-res imagery of her with Brennan Silver. It has been live for approximately 9 minutes. How would you like us to proceed?
As he held the phone, the center monitor flickered. The Clued In video frame froze, replaced by a "Video Unavailable" error message. The Alpha Ledger seemed to stop live streaming as well, though their videos still remained.
"Sir, the link just went dead," the technician reported. "The entire post has been scrubbed."
Fletcher watched the screen, unbothered. "The parents," he murmured. "They're faster than I gave them credit for. Keep monitoring," he said, as the car's AC pumped even more cold air into the pressure cooker of the surveillance van.
The afternoon sun blazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, turning the massive glass conference table into a blinding sheet of light. Every time a board member leaned forward to emphasize a point, their skin left oily smudges on the pristine surface. To Carrie, they looked like stains on her inheritance.
Carrie sat at the head of the table in a black turtleneck business dress, her long ginger hair a vibrant contrast. She remained perfectly still, her face a mask of blank neutrality as the room erupted.
Just as Mr. Brown began to speak, Whitney leaned in from Carrie's right, handing over a smartphone. An alert had triggered: Vivian Kane - Media Mention. Whitney tapped the screen, but her brow furrowed when the "Content Unavailable" message appeared. She whispered, "It was just there. It's gone. It's like it was scrubbed in real-time."
Carrie didn't blink. She gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand, signaling Whitney to retreat. She knew the Kanes had moved. Her focus stayed on the wolves at her table.
"The numbers don't lie, sweetheart," Peter said from the opposite end of the table. He leaned back, his tone patronizingly smooth. Her traitorous husband, trying to lessen the blow of his actions with meaningless endearments. "Four years ago, this company was a hundred-and-fifty-billion-dollar juggernaut. Now? We're bleeding liquidity. It's for the best, sweetie. Truly."
"He's right," Mrs. Jean snapped, her rings clinking against the glass as she gestured wildly. She held 8%. "Our margins are being eaten alive because clients don't respect our leadership. They smell blood in the water."
"We need a cash infusion," Mr. Watts chimed in, leaving a heavy palm print on the glass. He held 4%. "The only path forward is a dilution of your seventy-three percent stake. We bring in new blood."
"It's about the optics of inexperience, Carrie," Mr. Winkle added, his 1% stake giving him an unearned voice. "The industry has moved, and we haven't."
Mr. Brown, clutching his 5% share, slammed a hand onto the stack of reports. "Leadership that commands respect, not someone still learning the ropes while the ship is sinking!"
Carrie finally shifted her gaze to her husband. Peter didn't look away. He adjusted his tie, his expression one of calculated disappointment. "I agree with the board, sweetheart. We can't keep burning capital to protect a majority stake that is losing value. We need to open the gates."
Carrie's hands, which had been clasped in her lap, finally unfurled. She reached out and pressed her palms flat against the cold glass. Her black-manicured nails tapped a slow, rhythmic beat.
"I hear your concerns," she said, her voice deceptively soft. "And I share in them. I will take this all under advisement. Thank you for your time."
She stood and exited the room, Whitney following behind.
The heavy cherry-wood door clicked shut on her expansive office. Carrie walked across the room, her eyes briefly catching the Springbrook cityscape before she sat at her desk. On the far wall, a hidden screen showed the recording of the board members in the conference room. A glowing red REC pulsed in the corner.
"Do we have everything we need?" Carrie asked.
"We do," Whitney said, opening her tablet. "The 'New Blood' clause is active. If a board member is found in breach of the Moral Turpitude or Fiduciary Loyalty codes, you have the right to a forced buyout at twenty percent below market value."
"Give me the highlights."
"Mr. Brown is facilitating insider trading. Mr. Watts and Mr. Winkle have the sexual harassment claims—misappropriation of company funds used for the payouts."
Carrie reached for a sleek, silver fountain pen. She signed the first two Termination of Seat notices for Mr. Watts and Mr. Winkle.
"Start with these two," Carrie commanded. "The harassment scandal will leak the moment they're served. The stock price will dip exactly as Mrs. Jean fears. It will look like the company is in turmoil."
"And Mr. Brown?" Whitney wondered, knowing that they had the worst dirt on him!
"Call the regulatory board. Send them the server logs. I want the authorities here. Once the handcuffs are on him, I'll terminate his seat." With his termination, the amount she would have to pay out on his shares would be peanuts, especially with the dip in stock prices.
Whitney nodded. "There is still that final one percent shareholder. Buried under shell companies. Do you think one of them is hiding a secret vote?"
A soft smile touched Carrie's lips as she looked back out at Springbrook. "Don't worry about that one, Whitney. That one is handled."
"And Mr. Taylor?" Whitney asked.
Carrie turned to the screen showing her husband, still sitting at the glass table, looking smug. "I'm not ready to implode that piece yet." All in good time, Carrie thought to herself.