Chapter 246
“Unbelievable,” Harper growled. “Look at the comments. People are buying it! They’re calling you a monster.”
I sipped my espresso. It was hot, bitter, perfect.
“Patience, Harper.”
“They’re getting sympathy donations!” Harper pointed at the screen. “Someone just sent a Super Chat for five hundred dollars.”
“Let the number climb,” I said, eyes glued to the viewer count. “Wait until they hit fifty thousand.”
Ten minutes later, the number hit 55,000. Local news stations were picking up the feed.
“Now,” I said.
I nodded to Gabriel Ross, who sat in the corner with a laptop. He wasn’t just an actor; he had friends in very low places—specifically, a hacktivist collective he’d befriended for a role years ago.
“Injecting the payload,” Gabriel said, typing furiously.
On the screen, Victor was mid-sentence. “She’s just a greedy—”
Suddenly, the video feed glitched. Petunia’s crying face froze. Static cut across the screen.
Then a new video window popped up, overlaying their faces.
Grainy security footage. A casino VIP room. Arthur sat at a table, sweaty and wild-eyed.
“I’ll bet the kid’s college fund,” Arthur’s voice came through the speakers, clear as day. “Skye doesn’t need to go to Oxford. She’s just going to marry rich anyway.”
The chat went silent.
Then another audio clip played. This one was Petunia.
“I hope the little brat dies in that hospital,” Petunia’s voice sneered. “If she kicks the bucket, the trust fund reverts to us. Did you switch her medication like I told you?”
The chat exploded.
WTF?
Did she just admit to poisoning her niece?
These people are sick.
On the sidewalk, Victor frantically tapped his phone.
𝗗i𝗌𝗰𝗼𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗻𝗲w s𝘵𝗼r𝗂𝗲𝘴 𝗼𝘯 𝘣е𝗅𝘯𝗈𝗏e𝗹𝘀.𝘤𝗼𝗺
“What’s happening? Turn it off! Turn it off!”
But he couldn’t. We had locked his phone remotely.
The stream continued. A bank statement scrolled across the screen, highlighting a transfer of $50,000 to Elite Escorts from the company charity account, signed by Victor.
“No!” Victor screamed, hurling the phone onto the pavement.
It shattered.
But the stream didn’t stop. We were broadcasting it directly to the platform now.
Inside the manor, I watched the finale.
A black SUV pulled up to the curb next to Petunia and Victor. It wasn’t an Uber.
Two large men with neck tattoos stepped out. They weren’t local street thugs. They wore tailored suits that fit too tightly over their muscles. The insignia on their lapels marked them as enforcers for the Petrov syndicate—the real money behind Arthur’s Cayman accounts.
“Arthur skimmed forty million from the fund,” one of the men said, his voice audible even through the surveillance mic on the gate. “Since he’s in jail and the assets are frozen, the debt passes to the next of kin.”
Victor’s face went white. Petunia screamed.
I pressed a button on the remote, turning the monitor off.
“Show’s over,” I said.
My phone rang. It was Liam.