The night after Marco Delos Reyes' call was one of the longest nights of my life. Sleep became impossible as my mind spiraled through every worst-case scenario.
I sat at my dining table, papers scattered around me, my laptop open with spreadsheets glowing on the screen. I had spent hours combing through Lyson’s financial records, searching for any discrepancies — anything that could support Marco’s claims.
But everything looked clean.
My numbers matched. My team’s reports aligned. There were no signs of hidden funds, no suspicious transactions — nothing that even hinted at corruption.
"So where is this journalist getting his information?" I wondered.
Frustration churned inside me. I knew the business world could be ruthless, but this felt different — calculated, targeted. Someone wanted to see me fall.
By the time morning light crept through my windows, I had barely moved from my spot. A cold cup of coffee sat forgotten beside me. My body ached with fatigue, but my mind refused to rest.
This isn’t over, I told myself. If they want to take me down, they’ll have to fight harder than this.
With that, I grabbed my blazer and packed my files.
***
I arrived at my office earlier than usual. The building was still quiet, the soft hum of air conditioning filling the empty hallway. It was the calm before the chaos, and I knew today would be anything but peaceful.
I couldn’t stop replaying Marco's words in my head. Questionable financial records... misused or hidden funds... evidence suggesting otherwise... None of it made sense. I had built Lyson Company with my blood, sweat, and tears — every decision made with purpose, every transaction accounted for.
So who’s trying to ruin me?
I had barely set my bag down when Jake stormed into my office, his face pale with worry.
“You saw it?” he asked breathlessly.
“What?” I frowned.
He shoved his phone into my hand, and my stomach dropped as I read the headline:
“INSIDE LYSON COMPANY: Hidden Funds and Corporate Deception?”
The article claimed that Lyson had been funneling money through shell companies, disguising expenses to avoid taxes. They mentioned suspicious accounts linked to my firm — accounts I’d never even heard of.
“None of this is true,” I muttered, my hands trembling. “I checked the records myself.”
“I know,” Jake said, his voice firm. “But the media doesn’t care about the truth — they care about what sells. And right now, your name is headline gold.”
Anger flared in my chest. “I need to talk to Marco. He promised he’d hold off on publishing!”
Before Jake could answer, my assistant, Claire, appeared at the door. “Ma’am, there’s someone here to see you.”
“Marco?” I asked.
“No... it’s Mr. Deveraux from Sterling Holdings.”
My breath hitched. Sterling Holdings was one of our biggest partners — a powerful investment firm that controlled a significant share of Lyson’s funding. If they were here this early... it couldn’t be good.
“Send him in,” I said, masking my nerves.
Moments later, Mr. Deveraux walked in — a tall man with sharp eyes and a suit so crisp it seemed to cut through the air. His expression was tight, almost predatory.
“I’ll get straight to the point,” he said, barely giving me time to greet him. “This morning’s article raises serious concerns. Sterling Holdings can’t afford to be tied to a company facing financial scandal.”
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” I said firmly.
“That may be,” he replied, “but perception is everything in this industry. Investors are nervous. We’re pulling out unless you can clear this up within the next 48 hours.”
“Forty-eight hours?” I repeated in disbelief. “That’s impossible!”
“Then I suggest you start working faster.” He turned on his heel and left without another word.
As the door closed behind him, I felt like the air had been knocked out of me. Losing Sterling Holdings would cripple my company — and with so little time, proving my innocence felt impossible.
***
Later that afternoon...
I spent hours reaching out to clients, assuring them that Lyson’s finances were stable. Some believed me — others, not so much.
While Jake coordinated damage control, I called Marco directly.
“You lied,” I snapped the moment he answered. “You said you’d hold off.”
“I did,” he shot back. “But someone else leaked the details before I could stop it. My boss ran the story without my approval.”
I exhaled sharply, my frustration boiling over. “Who gave you that information?”
There was a pause. “I can’t tell you that,” Marco said quietly.
“I need to know.” My voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Please.”
Another pause. Then, finally, Marco’s voice softened. “All I know is that the source had access to internal financial records — someone on the inside.”
My blood ran cold. Someone inside my company...
I hung up without another word and slumped back in my chair. The betrayal stung worse than anything else. Someone I trusted — someone I worked alongside — was feeding lies to the media.
But who?
***
That evening...
I sat in my penthouse, the lights dimmed, city lights flickering outside my window. The weight of the day pressed down on me.
A knock at the door startled me. I opened it to find Claire standing there, her face tense.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” she said, holding out an envelope. “This arrived for you — no return address.”
I took it cautiously, my fingers brushing against the thick paper. “Thanks, Claire.”
Once she left, I sat back on my couch and carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a single document — a list of transactions, account numbers, and names.
At the bottom, scrawled in red ink, was a single line:
“Your enemies aren’t just outside your company... they’re closer than you think.”
My heart pounded in my chest. The names on the list were familiar — employees I had worked with for years. People I trusted.
But one name stood out above the rest...
Jake Martinez.
My vision blurred. The man who had stood by me through everything — my friend, my business partner — was at the center of this.
Shit... How could you, Jake?
***