At Christopher's Mansion,it was eerily still that night.
A storm brewed over Nova Heights, lightning flashing across the distant skyline, thunder rolling like drums of war. Inside, the house was bathed in soft golden light — calm, deceptive, dangerous.
Christopher King sat in his study, sleeves rolled up, fingers steepled under his chin. A single lamp glowed over a stack of files, half-opened, half-forgotten. But his mind wasn't on numbers tonight.
He couldn't stop replaying what he'd heard earlier that afternoon — whispers from the PR division, subtle but sharp.
> "Looks like someone's digging into Miss Jones again." "I heard it's Clara Bennett and that woman from Rome — the diplomat's daughter."
He'd dismissed Clara at first, and told Elena he had nothing to do with her, but now his instincts screamed otherwise.
He poured himself a drink — neat, no ice — and stared out at the city from the glass wall of his study. The rain had begun, soft and steady, streaking down the panes like liquid silver.
"War of shadows," he muttered under his breath. "So be it."
He turned back to his desk and pulled out a folder marked Amelia Jones — Confidential.
Her reinstatement report, the disciplinary notes, her previous designs — all there.
But tucked between the pages was something else.
A letter she'd once written to HR, quietly asking to be reassigned after the scandal.
It wasn't just formal — it was heartbreak in ink.
"I don't want to be a distraction. I just want to work with dignity."
Christopher's jaw clenched.
He had watched men destroy careers with one careless rumor — and now, someone was coming for her again.
And this time, they'd have to go through him.
He picked up the phone. "Mark."
"Sir?"
"Find out who's feeding the media. I want names, accounts, timestamps. If anyone inside leaks one more story, I'll personally see them blacklisted across every tech firm in the country."
Mark hesitated. "Understood, sir. But… this might not be just internal. There are international sources — possibly Miss Moretti."
Christopher's grip on the glass tightened.
"Elena."
The glass shattered in his hand, amber liquid spilling across the desk like blood.
"Clean this up," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And Mark?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Don't trust anyone. Not even HR."
---
Across town, Amelia was just beginning to understand how deep the war ran.
Her day at the office had started normal — until the stares began.
Whispers. Mutters. The same old poison dressed in new words.
She'd walked into the break room to find two coworkers hovering over a tablet.
When they noticed her, they froze — too late. The headline was right there, glowing on the screen.
> "Anonymous Insider Claims Amelia Jones Used Personal Connections for Reinstatement — Romance in the Boardroom?"
Her stomach dropped.
Her fingers went cold.
She didn't need to read further — she knew the pattern.
Same tone, same manipulation, same signature smear tactics.
Clara and Elena.
Of course.
"Unbelievable," Lydia muttered over the phone when Amelia called her minutes later. "Didn't they learn the first time?"
"They learned exactly what to do," Amelia said bitterly, pacing the empty corridor. "They're smarter now. No direct evidence. Just enough to make people doubt again."
"Then you fight smarter," Lydia urged. "You've got proof, right? Records, messages?—"
"It doesn't matter," Amelia interrupted quietly. "Once the media decides your story, truth doesn't count anymore."
There was a beat of silence on the line.
Then Lydia said softly, "You're not alone this time, Meli. Remember that."
Amelia smiled faintly — tired, grateful — but the weight in her chest didn't lift.
She looked out through the office window, watching the rain hit the city. The world outside looked washed clean, but inside, the dirt was spreading again.
---
Meanwhile, at the his mansion, the storm had broken for real.
Christopher stood at the balcony, rain soaking his white shirt, unbothered by the cold. Lightning flashed across his face — a sculpture of rage and resolve.
He had underestimated Elena's desperation. He had thought Elena was over him by now since she called off the wedding herself but it seemed otherwise.
And that was his mistake.
He wouldn't make it again.
Behind him, Mark stepped cautiously into the rain-damp balcony. "Sir… there's something else. We intercepted a call between Miss Bennett and Miss Moretti. They're planning to leak something bigger."
Christopher turned slowly. "What kind of leak?"
Mark hesitated. "Something about Amelia's… children."
For a heartbeat, the world went silent.
Then, Christopher's voice — cold as steel — cut through the rain.
"Not a word of this reaches the press. Send security to their offices. Wipe their data. Every file, every device."
"Sir— that's borderline illegal—"
"Then make it untraceable." His tone brooked no argument. "If they want war, I'll give them hell."
Mark swallowed hard. "Understood."
As Mark retreated, Christopher stayed where he was, rain running down his face like tears he'd never allow himself to shed.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard his mother's voice again — soft, fading.
> "Don't let anger become your home, Chris. It burns everything you love."
He closed his eyes, whispering to the storm,
"I lost peace the day I met her. I won't lose her too."
---