The next day in the boardroom upstairs, Vera, her father Hartwell and her lover Lincoln were seated before a panel of Argon Crest executives. They were pitching the final phase of their luxury project, unaware of what the silent king of the empire had cooked.
"We've brought in a design team from Milan," Lord Hartwell explained smugly, flipping through slides. "And our PR campaign is ready to launch by the weekend."
Vera added with a perfect, rehearsed smile, "We're offering the Argon Crest brand an exclusive opportunity to invest before this becomes the next big thing in urban real estate."
The executives looked unimpressed. One of them, a quiet older man with a sharp nose, cleared his throat. "Interesting presentation. However, we were recently informed that the board has undergone a shift in management."
Lincoln blinked. "What kind of shift?"
"New CEO," the man replied. "Takes effect today."
Vera and Hartwell scoffed. "And who's that? Some Dubai investor we've never met?"
Before the executive could answer, the door opened, ushering in Tape, looking trimmed and cropped, like a man on his wedding day.
Everyone stared.
Tape calmly walked to the head of the table, placed the folder down, and sank into a chair.
The executive who spoke earlier stood, undecided whether to extend their hands or not. "Welcome, Mr.?."
"Tape, jus' call me Tape." He grinned. "I'm here to represent my father, the CEO of this company. In his absence, I'll fill in and send due reports untill he has enough time to resume."
He tried not to laugh. Victor had given him the script. Every detail. And now, the trap was working.
Vera's jaw dropped in a soundless shock; Lord Hartwell struggled to look unmoved.
Tape glanced at them both. "Apologies for the inconveniences." He nodded lazily. "But I'm kinda homeless right now, you know? Been crashing with friends."
Hartwell's expression changed. This clown was a potential key to their success.
"Well," Hartwell said, voice softening, "If you need a place to stay, I have a spare suite in my estate and you're welcomed."
And that was how Tape followed Lord Hartwell home. He'd feigned distress on the way, talking about his "fall from grace,". Lord Hartwell and Vera, drunk with desperation and a fake sense of leverage, believed every word.
Now, in the Hartwell mansion, Tape sat cross-legged on a velvet armchair, slurping mango juice and Hennessy from a wine glass offered by Lady Hartwell.
"This is the man you spoke about?" she asked.
"Yes, yes," Lord Hartwell replied. "Very well connected. He's the CEO's son."
Tape belched lightly. "My old man's still close with a few... ministers. If I like you, maybe I'll make some calls and you'll win the pitch."
Vera's eyes glowed from happiness. They have surely hit a jackpot, a sure ticket to pitch approval.
Vera's mother ordered the staff to prepare the guest suite, and Tape, unsure of how to enjoy his short glory, ordered three square rounds of food, to the shock of his hosts.
The days that followed, Tape monitored everything. He kept tabs on Hartwell's calls, snooped through paperwork, and even stole glances at confidential documents left carelessly on the study table. Every night, he texted Victor detailed notes, including dates, names, account details, and whispers about old deals with senators which began to paint a dangerous picture that suggests Lord Hartwell had deep ties to something shady.
While Tape played James Bond, Victor sat across from Kate Hardy at a scheduled luxury restaurant looking razor sharp like hatred. Kate was in her emerald dress with a kind of beauty that made angels jealous.
"I still can't believe you remembered this place," Kate said, swirling her wine. "It's where I had my first birthday dinner without my father."
Victor nodded with a smile.
Kate leaned forward, eyes like Aphrodite. "You remember the little things. That's what I like about you."
Victor looked across the city and his heart was at peace. But he was unaware that sitted across the street in a black Mercedes, was Isabella staring at a phone screen.
A follower of hers from Instagram who just happened to be dining at the same restaurant, a few tables away, had posted an innocent picture of the restaurant. A wide-angle shot of the venue. But in the background, seated intimately beneath the hanging lights, was Victor and Lord Hardy's daughter.
Isabella's fingers tightened around the phone.
Inside the restaurant, Victor and Kate were mid-conversation.
"She's been calling, you know," Kate said.
"Who?"
"What's her name again… Isabella. She dropped a message at my office, asking if I'd seen you." Kate played with her necklace. "I didn't say anything."
He frowned. "That's wild."
Kate leaned forward. "You should talk to her. She seems... attached."
Downstairs, Isabella stepped out and headed for the stairs of the restaurant, but at the entrance, a host stopped her. "Reservation, ma'am?"
Isabella barely glanced at him. Her eyes scanned the room.
There they were. Kate smiling to whatever Victor was narrating. Then she reached and lightly caressed his cheeks.
God, take my soul!
Something painful surged through her. The itch to squeeze life out of both of them. Healing him now looked like a sin.
Painfully, she stormed out. "I should've allowed you to die, Victor."
Just then, Victor got a text from Tape:
"Your plan is working. Hartwell thinks I'm the son to the CEO. This man is now treating me like royalty. He just introduced me to his lawyer and I think he's trying to get me to influence the board to approve his daughter's pitch."
Victor smiled.
A voicenote followed. He played it. It sounded like Tape was dragging at some chicken and smacking his lips altogether:
"Yo, man … Munch … by this time next week … slurp … Hartwell's name will be printed on the biggest estate project in the country … slurp… all he needs is that one vote on the board …. Munch … Chew … and his associate … Lick … Darnell, I overhead them planning to deliver a consignment tomorrow … Flip… plus, Hartwell is hosting a private pre-celebration dinner tonight, you should be here."
The recording ended. Victor's eyes narrowed — the undercover strategy was yielding fruits.
He stood up, grabbed his jacket, and hit the street with his jalopy of a car.