Chapter 2

I was "escorted" out of the ballroom.

Two security guards "supported" me, one on each side, their posture polite, their grip unyielding.

Blake was afraid I, the "madwoman," would stay and ruin his little show.

I was dumped outside the hotel entrance. The evening breeze hit me, sobering me up considerably.

My phone vibrated wildly in my pocket. I didn't even need to look to know what the notifications would say.

#EliteScandal: Heiress Alex Reed Suffers Breakdown, Causes Scene at Gala, Pushes Pregnant Friend#

#BlakeSterlingChloeHayes: Fairytale Love, True Feelings Revealed in Adversity#

#PerfectHeiressAlexReedPersonaCrumbles#

*Huh*, what a brilliant "public execution" strategy.

They understood the power of the media perfectly. First, they branded me "mentally unstable," so anything I said or did afterward would be dismissed as a madwoman's ramblings.

Ruthless, professional.

Fitting, considering they stole my plan and then applied it so cleverly.

I didn't go home. That so-called home had already been stolen from me.

I hailed a taxi on the street and gave the address of a quiet, older apartment complex.

It was a small apartment I’d bought with my first scholarship check during college, registered solely in my name.

Thankfully, I’d left myself one last fallback.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes a mix of sympathy and gossip.

"Miss, you're… Ms. Reed from the news, aren't you?"

I said nothing.

He sighed to himself. "Ah, these rich family dramas, they're truly messy. That guy isn't much better, looks decent on the outside."

I gave a faint smile, not responding.

Messy?

It was about to get a whole lot messier.

Back at the apartment, I stripped off the six-figure gown, tossed it into the trash, and took a long, hot shower.

The warm water rinsed my body, and the confusion from my mind.

I had no time to collapse, no time to cry.

Tears were the ultimate sign of weakness.

From the moment they pushed me off that cliff, this war had begun.

My only weapon wasn't the Reed family name, nor the pitiful balance in my bank account. It was the knowledge in my brain, the very "theoretical nonsense" Blake had mocked.

Oxford University, PhD in Media and Communications.

I had spent seven years learning how to shape public opinion, create trends, twist narratives, and redefine perceptions.

Before, I treated these as academic concepts.

Now, they were my weapons of war.

I dried my hair and dragged out a dusty box from under my bed.

Inside was an old laptop and several encrypted satellite phones.

I'd prepared this gear during my studies for sensitive fieldwork in certain regions.

The laptop booted up, the screen flickering to life.

I expertly logged into several global social platforms and deep web forums, activating seven or eight anonymous accounts I'd registered long ago.

These accounts didn't have huge followings, but each one represented a contact I’d built over the years across the globe, through my professional expertise and personal charisma.

There were renowned investigative journalists, top-tier hackers, and classmates who were now executives at multinational PR firms.

In the past, we discussed theories and case studies.

Now, I was going to talk to them about business.

I didn't immediately expose Blake and Chloe's dirty laundry.

That would be foolish.

Given that they'd already painted me as a "crazy woman," any leak from me would be dismissed as "a madwoman's revenge."

To trap your prey, first, you need to make them drop their guard.

Then, you weave a net they can't escape.

I needed leverage, a legal anchor to pry open the entire situation.

My gaze fell on an old news article on my laptop screen.

*Industry Conscience or Business Idiot? Star Lawyer Julian Thorne Expelled from Top Law Firm ‘Revelation Legal’ for Refusing to Participate in Hostile Takeover of Reed Media.*

The date was just a week before my "bankruptcy."

*Interesting.*

Turns out, I wasn’t the only one who’d been betrayed.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

I picked up a satellite phone and dialed a number.

The call connected. A clear, cautious male voice answered.

"Who is this?"

"Mr. Thorne," I began, my voice as calm as if discussing the weather. "This is Alex Reed. I think we have a common enemy, and perhaps we could discuss how to send him straight to hell."