The Buzzkill Wife Who Signed Their Paychecks

"Then whose company is it?" Theo asked, his voice cracking over the PA system.

He gripped the heavy plastic microphone handle, his knuckles turning stark white under the harsh studio lights.

I didn't answer him.

I turned my focus back to the master control board. My fingers flew across the illuminated keys, bypassing the network's standard security firewalls.

"Vivian, stop," Brett ordered. He reached across the desk for the main power switch.

I slammed my elbow into his forearm, knocking his hand away.

"Don't touch my board," I said.

I pulled up the hidden directory on the server. The exact video file Brett thought he permanently erased six months ago.

"Main display, override feed B," I commanded into the headset.

The towering legal contract on the LED wall vanished. A time-stamped video flared to life, casting a pale, cold glow across the live audience.

5:02 AM.

The harsh fluorescent lights of our kitchen flickered on screen. I stood at the marble counter, wearing a faded gray bathrobe. I chopped vegetables, whisked eggs, and packed three separate nutrition-coded lunchboxes.

"What is this?" Grant yelled from the stage. "Turn this off!"

"This is the reality you edited out," I said through the stadium speakers.

The video cut to a new angle. 11:45 PM.

I sat alone at the dining table, surrounded by stacks of red-stamped envelopes. The camera zoomed in on my laptop screen. I typed rapid responses to collection agencies, negotiating aggressive payment plans for Grant's leased sports cars.

"He told the cameras I slept until noon," I said. "He told the audience I contributed nothing."

Theo stared at the twenty-foot projection of me rubbing my exhausted eyes. He slowly lowered his microphone.

I tapped the monitor displaying the live broadcast feed. The network integrated a live comment stream on the right side of the screen.

Ten minutes ago, the chat was a solid wall of insults directed at me.

Now, the text scrolled so fast it blurred.

*Wait, she paid his debts?*

*Grant lied.*

*Look at the dates on those emails! He was already bankrupt!*

*Justice for Vivian.*

Marcus leaned over my shoulder, reading the comments. The color drained from his face.

"The engagement metrics," Marcus whispered. "They're spiking. We're trending number one globally."

"They don't want a fake family dynamic," I said. "They want the truth."

Down on the stage, Grant lost the last shred of his composure. He threw his arms up in the air, glaring at the control booth glass.

"This is illegal!" Grant screamed at the cameras. "She hacked the system! Someone get up there and arrest her!"

He marched toward the backstage stairs, heading straight for the booth.

"Block him," I said into the headset.

Two burly security guards stepped out from the shadows of the wings. They moved in perfect synchronization, planting themselves directly in Grant's path.

"Out of my way!" Grant shouted. He shoved the taller guard in the chest.

The guard didn't budge. He grabbed Grant's wrist, twisting it just enough to force my husband to step back.

"Sir, remain on the stage," the guard instructed, his voice flat and professional.

Grant yanked his arm free. "I pay your salary! I am the star of this network!"

"You don't pay anyone, Grant," I said over the PA. "Look at his chest."

Grant frowned. He glanced down at the guard's uniform.

"Camera three, push in," I ordered.

The heavy camera swiveled. The high-definition feed displayed the guard's silver metal ID badge on the massive stage screen.

It was a thick, tarnished piece of plastic and metal.

Exactly like the one burning a hole in my palm.

The engraved logo caught the stage lights: *Apex Media Holdings LLC*.

Grant stumbled backward. He stared at the guard, then looked up at me.

"You," Grant stammered. "The security team... they work for..."

"I told you," I said. "I handle every frame of this show. Including the personnel."

Brett backed away from the console. He ran a trembling hand over his bald head, sweat dripping down his temples.

"I have to fix this," Brett muttered. "I have to get down there."

He bolted for the heavy steel door, shoving past Marcus and sprinting down the backstage corridor.

I watched monitor four as Brett burst onto the polished floor of the stage. He waved his arms, signaling the floor crew to cut the cameras.

Nobody listened to him. I controlled the feed.

A young intern sprinted out from the opposite wing. His headset sat crooked on his messy hair. He clutched a single sheet of freshly printed paper.

"Mr. Calloway!" the intern yelled, nearly colliding with the director.

Brett grabbed the boy by the shoulders. "Not now! We are in a total broadcast meltdown!"

"Legal just faxed this!" the intern shouted, shoving the paper against Brett's chest. "You need to look at it right now!"

Brett snatched the paper.

I zoomed camera two directly onto the document in his hands.

The bold header filled my control monitor: *Apex Media Holdings - Master Shareholder Registry*.

Brett scanned the first line. His jaw dropped, and the clipboard slipped from under his arm, crashing onto the stage floor.