Midas Protocol: Seducing My Rival's Wife

The Chase branch on 3rd Avenue was busy. Duke walked in. He was still wearing his jeans and a hoodie that had a small coffee stain near the hem. The security guard by the door barely glanced at him, dismissing him as a non-threat, a non-entity. Duke walked to the teller line. He waited for ten minutes. When he finally got to the window, the teller, a woman with tired eyes and chipping nail polish, didn't even look up. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice flat. "I'd like to speak to a private client banker," Duke said. The teller looked up then. She scanned his hoodie. His messy hair. His unshaven face. She let out a small, condescending sigh. "Sir, the private bankers require an appointment. And usually, a minimum balance of-" Duke placed his phone on the counter. He pushed it toward her. The screen displayed his account summary. Checking: $1,000,042.18 The teller froze. She blinked, looking closer, expecting a screenshot or a fake app. But the timestamp was live. The app interface was authentic. She looked back at Duke, her brain struggling to reconcile the number with the man. Suddenly, the stain on his hoodie didn't look like a mess; it looked like the eccentricity of a tech genius who didn't care about social norms. "One moment, sir," she stammered. "Right away, sir." Three minutes later, Duke was sitting in a glass-walled office. The chair was real leather. Soft. Buttery. A man in a sharp suit placed a bottle of Evian on the coaster in front of him. "Mr. Zeller," the manager said, his smile bright and predatory. "We are so delighted you chose this branch. How can we assist you with your... portfolio today?" Duke took a sip of the water. It tasted clean. Expensive. "I just want to upgrade my status," Duke said. "And I want a cashier's check." "Of course." Duke watched the man type. He felt a strange detachment. Money changed the air pressure in the room. People leaned in. They listened. They smiled. It was a superpower. But Duke knew the truth. He was an imposter. The system had injected him into this world, and he had to play the part perfectly. Thirty minutes later, Duke walked out of the bank. He was now a Chase Private Client. He had a temporary card in his wallet. He walked two blocks to a quiet cafe. He sat at a table outside, ignoring the chill in the air. He opened the App. He clicked on the Coincidence Generator item he had received for accepting the mission. Item: Coincidence Generator Effect: Creates a perfect, statistically improbable opportunity to interact with the target. Activate? Duke pressed Yes. The screen rippled. Locating Target: Victoria Thorne. Location: Upper East Side. Transit. Event Triggered: Mechanical Failure. ETA: 8 Minutes. Duke stood up. The system provided a GPS marker. It was six blocks away. Duke walked. He didn't rush. He moved with a new kind of purpose. He reached the designated spot. It was a side street off Park Avenue. Quiet. Lined with trees that were stripped bare for winter. Expensive brownstones loomed on either side. Duke leaned against a wrought-iron fence. He checked his watch-a cheap digital Casio. Time remaining: 00:30. He waited. Twenty seconds later, a black Mercedes G-Wagon turned the corner. It was sleek, massive, a tank for the urban elite. It was moving slowly. Then, it sputtered. The engine made a choking sound. The massive vehicle lurched, coughed, and died right in front of where Duke was standing. Steam hissed from the hood. Duke straightened his jacket. He watched through the tinted window. He saw a woman inside. She hit the steering wheel with her hands. She put her forehead against the leather rim. She looked defeated. It was Victoria. Duke took a breath. He checked his reflection in a parked car's window. He looked rough, but maybe that was good. He wasn't a threat. He was just a guy on the street. He walked over to the driver's side window. He raised his hand. He knocked on the glass. Rap. Rap. Rap. Inside, Victoria jumped. She turned her head. Her eyes were wide, startled. Duke saw fear there. But he also saw something else. Underneath the expertly applied foundation, around her left eye, there was a faint discoloration. Yellow and purple. A bruise that was fading, but not gone. Duke felt a cold spike of rage in his gut. Simon. He forced his face into a mask of polite concern. He smiled. A gentle, harmless smile. Victoria hesitated. Then, slowly, the window rolled down.