THE BILLIONAIRE'S PHOENIX

Victor and Esther Croft have returned from the Maldives today. I watched them from a distance, rolling their expensive suitcases through the airport. As much as I hate their son, I hate them just as fiercely. They were never the innocent, unaware parents. They were cut from the same rotten cloth, always looking the other way, always enabling his worst behavior. My very first real strike is aimed at them, and every detail is meticulously planned. It will be completely different from the mind games I've been playing with Ethan. I'm not going to simply appear and scare them. No, that would be too easy. I don't plan to reveal myself to them at all. Their punishment needs to be quieter, a slow poison that seeps into the foundation of their perfect little world. Now, as I sit in my office at Aethelred House, I watch the four of them in the Crofts' living room on my screen. They're laughing, talking about their trip, showing off trinkets. Just a moment ago, Natasha gushed about how she wishes to go there for her honeymoon. The entire conversation makes me sick. It's all so fake. They just got back yesterday. My original plan was to begin tomorrow, to let them settle in. But watching them, so smug and comfortable, makes my skin crawl. My patience is wearing dangerously thin. Why wait? I think it will be perfectly fine to start today. Right at that moment, my desk phone rings. I quickly click the live feed window closed, erasing the evidence, before picking up the call. It's Dahlia. "Vanessa, are the initial sketches for the finale gowns prepared?" she asks, her voice all business. "Yes, they're ready," I say. "The atelier has already started on the muslins for the first two designs. The fabric sourcing is underway." "Excellent. Please bring them to my office right away," she orders. "I have the marketing team here, and we need to finalize the visuals for the first campaign shoot." "I'll be right there," I reply and hang up. I stand, gathering the large portfolio of sketches from my desk. But before I head out, I pull the desktop screen back up. My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up a specific encrypted server. I type in a single command: RELEASE PACKAGE ONE. I hit enter. A progress bar flashes and then disappears. Done. A slow smile touches my lips. I feel a deep, thrumming sense of satisfaction. All I have to do now is wait for the news to break. ~ It's been six grueling hours since I walked into Dahlia's office. Six hours of non-stop work-finalizing sketches, arguing with the marketing team about the "vision," and overseeing the first frantic preparations for the campaign shoot. The shoot itself went well, they tell me. The models looked stunning. But honestly, I don't care about hemlines and lighting right now. The moment I'm back in my own office, I close the door and finally turn on my personal phone. It buzzes violently, notifications flooding the screen. And yes, there it is. My smile returns, wider this time, as I scroll through the news alerts popping up one after another. It's trending. And why wouldn't it be? The Crofts have worked very hard to be significant, and now their name is being dragged through the mud. I click on one of the top articles from The New York Chronicle. "SCANDAL IN THE TEXTILE EMPIRE: SOURCES REVEAL VICTOR CROFT'S ALLEGED LONG-TERM AFFAIRS," the headline screams. Below it are a series of grainy but damning photos-photos I meticulously doctored-of Victor in cozy, intimate-looking situations with various women. The narrative I fed to Noah, an ambitious journalist at the Chronicle, was simple: a heartbroken insider from the company revealing Victor's decades of infidelity. Perfect. This was my first real attack. Publicly shaming Victor Croft for something he, for all his other faults, never actually did. The irony is delicious. I sink into the plush white chair behind my desk, scrolling through the article with a sense of triumph. I sent Noah the fabricated pictures this morning along with the false narrative. It was almost too easy. Manipulating stories is simple when no one knows the real one. I can only imagine what is happening in that house right now. Esther, with her pride and her perfect socialite image, must be losing her mind. I scoff and turn on the live feed from their living room. The scene is exactly what I hoped for. They are in the middle of a heated argument. Esther is standing, her face flushed and tear-streaked, waving her phone-likely displaying the very article I just read. Victor is on his feet, his hands raised, trying to placate her. I put in my Bluetooth earpiece, and their voices fill my ears. "You're lying!" Esther shrieks. "How could you? All these years! With my friends? You've made a fool of me!" "Esther, listen to me! It's not true!" Victor's voice is strained, desperate. "These photos are fake! Someone is setting me up!" "Shut up!" she hisses, jabbing a perfectly manicured finger toward him. Her entire body is trembling with rage and humiliation. "You've ruined us! My phone has not stopped ringing! The entire Ladies' Auxiliary Club has seen it! Everyone is laughing at me!" Just then, the front door swings open and Ethan storms in, his face a dark cloud. He's clearly seen the news. For a fleeting second, Victor's eyes light up with a pathetic hope, seeing his son as a potential ally. "Ethan, thank God! You have to call the lawyers, the PR team...we need to issue a statement immediately! These pictures are fabricated! It's a targeted attack!" Victor pleads, grabbing his son's arm. But Ethan roughly shakes him off, his own expression twisted in disgust. "How could you do this, Dad? To Mom? To me? It's despicable, even for you." Victor stumbles back as if struck. "You believe this? You believe I would be this stupid? I'm telling you, I didn't do anything!" His voice rises to a frantic scream, echoing through the marble foyer. "None of it is real!" But no one is listening. Esther is sobbing into her hands, and Ethan is glaring, his arms crossed, a picture of judgment which is so hypocritical of him because he did the same to me with Natasha. They are a triangle of dysfunction, and Victor is completely, utterly alone in his truth. The argument escalates, a tornado of accusations and denials. "You've embarrassed me for the last time, Victor! I want you out of this house tonight!" Esther shrieks, her voice raw. "Use your head, woman! Why would I risk everything? Someone is trying to destroy me!" he bellows back, his face purple with rage. "Maybe because you're a selfish, pathetic man who never knew when he had it good!" Ethan snarls, adding fuel to the fire. He rubs his forehead in annoyance. "The company's sales are going down." Esther, overwhelmed, turns and storms up the grand staircase, sobbing about calling her lawyer. "I'm done! I am finally done!" "Esther, wait! Please!" Victor pleads, rushing after her. On the landing, he grabs her wrist, trying to force her to look at him. "Don't you touch me!" she screams, shaking her arm away with a fierce, violent jerk. The motion throws Victor off balance. His expensive loafers slip on the polished wood. My eyes widen a little, my feet rising from my seat on their own as I watch, utterly transfixed. It happens in a horrifying, slow-motion instant. Victor Croft flails, his arms windmilling uselessly. Then he pitches forward. His body tumbles down the long, curved staircase, hitting each step with a series of sickening, heavy thuds. He lands in a broken, motionless heap at the bottom, his head resting at an unnatural angle against the cold marble. This was not in the plan. But... fuck. I can't stop the smile that creeps across my face. A sense of dark, profound satisfaction washes over me, so intense it steals my breath. This turned out better than I ever thought. On the screen, Esther freezes at the top of the stairs, her hands flying to her mouth. A second later, a blood-curdling, primal scream of pure panic rips through the speakers of my computer. "VICTOR!" But, well... Victor does not respond. A dark, crimson pool begins to spread around his head, stark against the pale marble. Ethan rushes to his father's side, his own panic rising. The mother and son cry his name over and over, as if their sheer desperation could rewind the last minute and wake him up. Idiots. "I-I'll call an ambulance!" Ethan stammers, fumbling for his phone with shaking hands. Esther just nods, her body trembling, tears streaming down her face in a perfect performance of shock and grief. I've seen enough. I close the live feed and lean back in my chair, a profound, chilling satisfaction settling deep in my bones. I was meant to torture Victor a bit more, to draw out his public humiliation, but I suppose this was fine, too. It was... efficient. I dial Alexander's number. He picks up on the second ring, his voice a low, steady rumble. "How did it go?" He already knew I was executing the first phase today; I'd sent him a text earlier. I can't help the grin that spreads across my face as I look out at the burning colors of the sunset. "It went better than I imagined," I tell him, my voice light. "The scandal broke. They had a massive fight. And Victor... he took a rather nasty fall down the main staircase. It looked very serious. The ambulance is on its way." I can almost hear his smirk through the phone. "A fall? How... unfortunate for him." He pauses, and I can picture him lounging back, already plotting. "So, since he's going to be in the hospital for a while... why not drag it out a little longer?" A cold shiver runs down my spine. "What are you implying?" I ask, even though I can already guess. I know my brother. The quiet, calculating rage he carries is far more ruthless than my own burning fire. He hates the Crofts with a depth that sometimes frightens even me. His voice is casual, almost lazy, as he suggests. "You know... we could always cook something up in his IV. Nothing too obvious. Just a little something to ensure he stays in that hospital bed forever. A permanent... complication." The line goes silent and I think about it for a second-a single, suspended moment where the ghost of Daphne Ashford flickers to life inside me. Daphne would have been horrified. Daphne would have gasped, her hand flying to her heart. She would have never agreed to this, never even entertained the thought of cold-blooded murder. She was all soft and believing in second chances. But Daphne is gone. She was left in the fire, a sacrifice to my own naivety. The woman I am now is carved from colder, harder stone. She cares about nothing but the sweet, slow taste of revenge. She looks at the world and sees a ledger that must be balanced, drop for drop. The ghost of Daphne vanishes, extinguished by the memory of smoke and betrayal. A strange calm settles over me as I reply, "Yes, I'll make sure Victor Croft stays in the bed forever."