Chapter 13 13

The bold, bloody red words of the threat glowing on Lyra’s terminal screen had barely faded before the morning sun broke through the heavy city smog. By eight o’clock, every major news station and financial network was completely consumed by the printing shop shootout, but the narrative was already twisting.

Damian’s highly paid public relations machine had spent the early morning hours spinning a desperate, massive lie to salvage what was left of his name. Serena had thrown millions of her grandfather's remaining legacy funds into organizing a massive, live televised press conference in the grand auditorium of the city's press club.

She stood proudly at the center of the podium, dressed in somber black attire, standing right beside a heavily bandaged and trembling Damian. Microphones from forty different news outlets were shoved into their faces as the cameras flashed in a blinding, rhythmic cadence.

"My family is currently living through an absolute, terrifying nightmare," Serena announced, her voice trembling perfectly for the rolling cameras. "The violent assault at the printing shop last night was entirely orchestrated by my ex-husband, Ethan Cross."

She paused, taking a sharp breath as she tearfully cradled her pregnant stomach on live television, looking directly into the primary lens with wide, pleading eyes. "He used his illicit shadow-banking muscle to silence us, and I am pleading with the federal authorities for immediate protection against this maniacal, weaponized man."

Damian nodded weakly beside her, wincing in feigned agony as he leaned heavily on a polished wooden cane. "I went to that shop to protect an old family friend, and Ethan’s private mercenaries nearly took my life to hide their financial crimes."

The public stock ticker for Holt Industries, which had been plummeting for forty-eight hours, briefly stabilized on the lower edge of the screen as sympathy points poured in from uneducated investors. The grand performance was working flawlessly, swinging the public emotional tide back toward the desperate heiress.

Inside the quiet penthouse suite, Lyra Crane sat completely still on the edge of the leather sofa, her eyes fixed on the television screen. Her face had turned into a solid mask of pure, cold steel, her fingers digging into the fabric of her dress.

"She is using her own unborn child as a physical bullet to shoot at us, Ethan," Lyra said softly, her voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet register. "It is absolutely disgusting how far she will go to protect a lie."

Ethan stood right behind her, his tall figure casting a long, commanding shadow across the hardwood floor as he watched Serena’s tearful face on the screen. His expression remained entirely unbothered, his eyes holding the dangerous calm of a general who had already anticipated his enemy’s exact trajectory.

"A lie always requires more energy to maintain than the truth, Lyra," Ethan replied, pulling his secure smartphone from his breast pocket. He tapped a single button, dialing a highly encrypted direct line.

"Sir?" Leo answered instantly, his voice sharp and waiting.

"Activate Phase Two of the media override protocol immediately," Ethan commanded smoothly, without a single trace of heat in his voice. "Release the unedited, high-definition security footage from the printing shop directly to the core network."

"Consider it done, Mr. Cross," Leo replied, and the line clicked shut.

Within exactly ten minutes, a massive, unprecedented digital event shook the entire infrastructure of the city’s media landscape. Every major news stream, social media platform, and giant financial billboard in the bustling city center suddenly overrode its current broadcast with a sharp, static hiss.

The live feed of Serena’s tearful face was violently cut off, replaced instantly by raw, terrifying video playing in crystal-clear, high-definition quality. The footage showed the interior of the printing shop from the previous night, the timestamps matching the events perfectly.

The entire city watched in absolute silence as the video showed Damian willingly walking into the shop alongside the brutal street enforcer Silas Vance. The audio was flawless, capturing Damian’s loud, mocking laughter as Silas slammed his fist into the older man’s face.

The footage clearly tracked Damian pointing frantically at the documents, screaming for a forced confession, and then fleeing like a absolute coward the moment Victor’s tactical operatives kicked the door off its hinges. There was no military spyware, no shadow-banking frame-up, and absolutely no room for interpretation.

The public reaction across the city was an instantaneous, catastrophic whiplash of pure, unadulterated outrage and deep disgust. Within seconds, the internet erupted with millions of angry comments, completely destroying the false narrative Serena had spent millions to build.

Inside the press club auditorium, Serena’s live press conference came to a sudden, staggering halt as the heavy video file simultaneously landed on every single reporter’s smartphone. The low hum of notification chimes quickly grew into a roaring wave of frantic murmurs.

The reporters looked up from their screens, their expressions instantly turning hostile as they surged forward against the podium, shoving their microphones violently into Serena’s face.

"Miss Holt! Did you know your fiancé actively participated in an attempted execution last night?" a veteran investigative reporter screamed into her face, his camera crew pushing past her security guards.

"Are you weaponizing a fake pregnancy narrative to shield a violent federal criminal?" another journalist shouted, his voice full of pure, professional contempt.

Serena stumbled backward, her face turning completely pale as her eyes darted frantically around the room, the flashing lights now feeling like physical strikes. "No... that’s not... the video is a complete forgery! Damian was a victim!"

"The digital watermarks are federal-grade, Miss Holt!" a third reporter yelled, blocking her exit path. "Holt Industries is fraudulent!"

Serena’s breath caught in her throat as she panicked entirely, her knees buckling beneath her heavy gown as she nearly collapsed onto the hard stage. Her frantic personal assistant rushed forward, grabbing her by the arms and violently dragging her away from the podium toward the rear curtains.

Damian tried to follow her, but his feigned injuries made him slow, and the reporters completely surrounded him, screaming questions about his ties to Silas Vance. He abandoned his wooden cane entirely, running through the back door like a terrified animal as the cameras caught every single second of his cowardice.

Within a single hour of the video's release, Holt Industries’ publicly listed stock dropped an unprecedented thirty-two percent, wiping out hundreds of millions in value. The massive, historic crash automatically triggered a regulatory trading halt, freezing the company’s financial lifeblood entirely.

Damian’s remaining institutional investors completely abandoned him before the noon hour, issuing formal legal notices demanding the immediate, total liquidation of all mutual corporate assets to cover their losses. The Holt family name had officially become toxic.

High above the city center, inside his pristine, high-rise executive office, Julian Ashvale sat at his glass desk, watching the chaotic news reports play out on the wall monitors. His face was a mask of cold, absolute indifference as he set his fountain pen down.

His secretary stepped into the room quietly, her voice trembling. "Mr. Ashvale, Damian Holt is on line four. He is screaming for emergency legal assistance from your private firm."

Julian didn't even look up from his desk, his silver hair gleaming under the soft office lights. "Delete his personal contact file from our database permanently, and notify the front desk that he is no longer permitted on the property."

"Understood, sir," she whispered, quickly retreating from the room.

Down on the crowded city streets, Damian wandered aimlessly through the freezing rain, his wet hair plastered against his forehead as he desperately tried to duck his face into his collar. Every single time he passed a digital billboard or a storefront television, his own face stared back at him alongside the word FRAUD.

Passersby were already pointing at him, their phones raised to snap pictures of the ruined heir as he stumbled down the public pavement. The brutal realization was finally settling into his brain that his face was globally recognized as a parasitic, violent liar, and there was absolutely nowhere left for him to hide.

Serena retreated to her private corporate office at the Holt headquarters, the door locked tight from the inside as the phones on her desk rang continuously without a single stop. Her eyes were completely bloodshot, her breathing ragged as a wild, psychotic energy overtook her mind.

"It’s her," Serena hissed to herself, her voice a low, manic growl as she stared at a framed photograph of her grandfather on the wall. "It’s all because of that low-born printer girl. She took my husband, she took my wealth, and she’s trying to take my child’s future."

With a sudden, violent scream of pure, unhinged rage, she grabbed a heavy crystal award from her desk and slammed it hard against the wall, shattering the glass into a thousand jagged pieces. She threw her chair across the room, smashing her computer monitor as she tore through her own financial records in a blind frenzy.

She reached into her desk’s hidden compartment, pulling out a small, unlisted black burner phone that Uncle Bertrand had given her months ago for "extreme corporate emergencies." Her fingers were slick with sweat as she dialed a forbidden, highly dangerous number.

The line clicked open after a single, heavy ring, the background silence on the other end carrying a terrifying, heavy weight. This was the direct line to The Iron Syndicate, a ruthless, underground black-market cartel that specialized in permanent eliminations for the ultra-wealthy.

"Identify yourself," a cold, masked voice demanded from the receiver.

"Serena Holt," she whispered into the phone, her eyes wide and completely empty of any lingering sanity as she clutched her stomach. "I don't care about the laws anymore. I don't care about the shares or the courts."

She leaned against the broken desk, her teeth grinding as she delivered the final, fatal command. "I want Lyra Crane dead by tomorrow morning, and I want Ethan Cross entirely broken. Name your price."

The voice on the other end paused for a single, terrifying beat before responding with a low, chilling mechanical click. "The contract is officially open, Miss Holt. Stay away from the windows tonight."