Chapter 18
Adrian
I watch the holographic display flicker with the recorded conversation between Sophia and Daniel. My jaw clenches as I observe their clandestine meeting through the lens of my technology.
"The AI isolated their conversation perfectly, despite the coffee shop's ambient noise," Mara says as she leans closer to my desk. Her fingers dance through the air, manipulating the holographic interface so that security footage from the coffee shop's cameras appears alongside the audio. ATLAS had easily breached their outdated system, providing multiple angles of the entire conversation. "She was clever enough to leave her phone behind, but Daniel's device captured everything."
My fingers drum against my desk, a tell I need to control better. The coffee shop's filtered audio fills my office, Daniel's voice stripped of background noise by my AI's advanced processing.
I watch Sophia's face on the display, studying every micro-expression as Daniel continues his exposition of my business practices. Her eyes widen slightly at each revelation, her fingers tightening around her cup.
The muscle in my jaw ticks as I process this betrayal. Not from Sophia—I'd anticipated her seeking answers. But Daniel... his meddling has become more than a mere annoyance.
"Shall I prepare a response?" Mara asks, her tone neutral.
I raise my hand, silencing her as I continue to watch. The recording shows Sophia leaning forward, hanging on Daniel's every word about my supposedly nefarious dealings. The filtered audio carries the tremor in her voice as she asks questions.
My fingers still their drumming, coming to rest flat against the desk's surface. The truth of my operations was always going to surface eventually. But having Daniel be the messenger—that's an insult I won't tolerate.
Mara brings up the digital trail of Daniel's activities. My blood boils beneath my composed exterior as ATLAS presents his research pattern—forums, dark web inquiries, conversations with journalists known for exposing tech corruption.
"He's been particularly active in cryptocurrency circles," Mara notes, pulling up timestamped records. "Asking about your company's market manipulation algorithms."
I turn in my chair, taking in the view from my 40th-floor vantage point. Each pinprick of light below represents another piece of my empire, everything I've built. Behind me, the screens paint Daniel's life in cold data: bank statements showing mounting debt, desperate emails to galleries, social media posts coated in fake confidence.
"Sir, perhaps we should consider—"
"Stop." I cut through Mara's words. She falls silent, knowing better than to push when I use that tone. "Show me his exhibitions."
Mara hesitates for a fraction of a second—I'm watching her ghost on the window—before pulling up Daniel's professional calendar. The display fills with upcoming shows, gallery commitments, critic meetings.
"His biggest opening is next month at the Morton Gallery," she says, highlighting the event. "He's invested considerable resources in this show. The pieces are... experimental. Mixed media incorporating technology themes."
My jaw tightens as I process this information. Of course he'd choose now to dabble in tech-focused art. A deliberate provocation, no doubt.
"He's also scheduled meetings with three major critics," Mara continues, the appointments appearing in sequence. "And there's a potential buyer interested in acquiring his entire collection."
I turn back to face the screens, studying every detail of Daniel's planned future. Each exhibition, each meeting, each potential sale represents a thread I could pull to unravel his life. Just as he's attempting to unravel mine.
"The subtle approach," I say, tasting the words like bitter medicine, "would be to let him continue his little investigation. Let him think he's gaining ground."
Mara straightens, sensing the shift in my tone. "And the alternative?"
I step closer to the displays, Daniel's face multiplied across dozens of photos. "The alternative is to remind him why some secrets stay buried."
I sit down and pull up Daniel's full financial records with a few keystrokes, watching the numbers scroll across my screen.
"Three years ago, he lost $50,000 in underground poker games." The transactions flash red in my system. "He borrowed from some particularly unsavory characters."
"Those debts were settled," Mara points out.
"Were they?" I enlarge a series of transfers. "Or did someone merely make them appear settled?" My fingers race across the interface, peeling back layers of financial camouflage. "Look deeper. The money trail leads to shell companies owned by his current debtors. They're still collecting interest."
Mara's sharp intake of breath tells me she sees it, too. "And the student?"
"Emma Kay." I bring up surveillance photos, emails, text messages. "She was 20 when he taught her Advanced Studio Art. Their relationship lasted six months before she transferred schools." The evidence materializes in neat columns, hotel receipts, private messages, desperate pleas when he ended things.
"The statute of limitations—"
"Doesn't matter." I wave away her concern. "The court of public opinion has no limitations. Besides, there's more."
I pull up tax records next to gallery sales data. "Notice these discrepancies?" Eight paintings sold through private dealers, payments in cash. "Nearly $200,000 in unreported income."
"The IRS would be very interested in this detail," Mara murmurs.
"Among others." I lean back, studying the web of Daniel's indiscretions spread across my screens. "Anonymous tips to the right parties. Evidence leaked at strategic moments. His reputation will crumble piece by piece."
"The timing matters," Mara says. "Too fast raises suspicion. Too slow loses impact."
"We start with whispers about the student. Let that simmer while we alert his creditors to his improving financial situation." I highlight key dates on a timeline. "The tax fraud comes last, after his defenders are already exhausted."
Mara is quiet for a moment, absorbing the plan. Then, carefully: "And Sophia?"
Her name cuts through my cold calculation. I feel my expression shift before I can stop it, though I keep my voice steady.
"What about her?"
"How does she factor into this?"
The muscles in my jaw work as I consider my response. Sophia's face appears unbidden in my mind—her talent, her vulnerability. All the things that drew me to her in the first place.
"She needs to understand something fundamental," I say, turning back to my desk. The satisfaction of a well-crafted plan settles into my bones as I adjust my cuffs. "I'm the only one who can truly protect her. Daniel's fall from grace will reinforce that lesson."
I watch Mara's silent nod, noting the subtle tension in her shoulders. The dynamic between us has shifted since Sophia moved in—the easy rapport we built over years of working together now carries an undercurrent of strain.
I consider how Mara's defiance revealed her true nature. The punishment session exposed her motivations, stripped away the professional veneer she maintained. Now she knows her place, understands that her attempts to interfere with Sophia were futile.
The signs are there in the way she carries herself, the distance she maintains. Her eyes no longer meet mine with that spark of challenge. She's realized that her power play backfired, that she can't drive a wedge between Sophia and me.
But she'll think of some new angle to attack from. The woman is addicted to the punishment I give her. I can manage Mara on the side when she "slips up."
All that matters is Sophia is finally where she belongs.
* * *
I savor the tender wagyu as I scroll through the latest headlines about Daniel's spectacular fall from grace. The private dining room at Le Ciel wraps around me like a cocoon of luxury, the mahogany panels gleaming in the warm light of Murano glass chandeliers. Wide windows offer a godlike view of Neon Heights spread out below, the city's lights twinkling like fallen stars.
"Another gallery just pulled his upcoming exhibition," Mara murmurs, her voice barely carrying over the subtle classical music piped through hidden speakers. She stands at attention beside my table.
I take another bite of the wagyu, letting the rich flavors bloom on my tongue while scanning the growing list of cancellations. "Which one?"
"The Morrison Gallery. They cited 'artistic differences,' but I'm certain it's the allegations."
A smile tugs at my lips. The Morrison had been particularly eager to distance themselves after those conveniently leaked photos of Daniel's drunken tirade at their charity gala last month. ATLAS had ensured maximum visibility among key industry players.
"His social media engagement metrics are dropping by the hour," Mara continues, swiping through analytics. "The algorithm is amplifying all the right conversations."
I dab my lips with the crisp linen napkin, pleased by how smoothly everything is unfolding. The restaurant's understated opulence, from the hand-painted silk wallpaper to the antique Persian carpet underfoot, feels appropriate for orchestrating Daniel's downfall.
"Show me the latest coverage," I say, setting down my fork.
Mara hands me her tablet. I scroll through a cascade of negative press: suspicious financial dealings, allegations of plagiarism, bitter testimonials from former students. Each story lands right on time, each accusation supported by evidence that seems to emerge organically. My AI systems track the spread of information across social media platforms, confirming optimal reach and impact among the art world's most influential voices.
The ma?tre d' appears silently at my elbow to refill my wine glass. Its complex bouquet mirrors the layered destruction of Daniel's reputation, notes of triumph mingling with the satisfaction of watching him crumble.
Messages stream across Mara's tablet screen, all nails in Daniel's professional coffin. My wine breathes in the crystal glass, its deep crimson matching my mood.
"Another desperate plea from the Whitman Foundation," Mara says, her fingertip sliding across the screen. "They're requesting immediate verification of provenance for his entire collection."
Daniel's frantic response begs for more time, claiming he can explain the discrepancies. The foundation's curt reply leaves no room for negotiation.
"The Klein Gallery just pulled his spring showcase," Mara continues. "That's the third cancellation today. His former students are particularly... vocal."
I take a sip of wine. "What are they saying?"
"Everything from favoritism to harassment. The testimonials are quite detailed." She takes the tablet and scrolls through a series of posts. "The art community is completely turning against him. Even his most loyal supporters are distancing themselves."
The ma?tre d' comes back with the dessert course, a delicate chocolate soufflé that steams when I break its surface. The aroma fills my nostrils as I observe the ripple effect of Daniel's destruction through the industry's upper echelons. Those who once championed him now scramble to erase any association.
"Harrison Walsh just removed Daniel from his upcoming charity auction," Mara notes. "Cited 'concerns about authenticity and reputation.' He specifically mentioned not wanting to risk his relationships with other collectors."
I savor a spoonful of soufflé. The message is clear to anyone paying attention—cross me and doors will close. Opportunities will vanish. Reputations will crumble.
"Sir," Mara's voice drops lower, tension creeping into her usual composure. "We've been getting some attention from investigative journalists. They're looking for connections..."
I lift my hand, cutting off her concern. ATLAS has already flagged these inquiries, tracking their digital footprints across servers and databases. Every transaction is buried under layers of shell companies. Communications route through encrypted channels and disposable accounts. The evidence leads nowhere—or rather, everywhere except to me.
"Show me the coverage patterns," I say.
Mara pulls up a visualization of how the stories spread. Seemingly independent revelations build on each other: gallery owners sharing concerns in private messages that mysteriously become public, anonymous sources providing documentation at the right times, critics who once praised Daniel's work now discovering "troubling patterns" in his technique.
"The Klein Gallery statement is gaining particular traction," Mara observes. "Their reputation for integrity makes their doubts especially damaging."
I nod, pleased at how the pieces fall exactly where I positioned them. To the art world, Daniel's downfall appears as organic as a fruit rotting from within, inevitable once the first bruise appears.
"Sir, his latest message..." Mara hesitates. "He's becoming increasingly unstable. Threatening to expose 'the truth' about various industry figures."
"Let him." I finish my wine, savoring its lingering notes. "Who would believe him now?"
I signal the ma?tre d' for another glass of wine, maintaining the rhythm of an ordinary business dinner. The sommelier approaches with deference, presenting the bottle for my approval before pouring.
"And the teaching position?" I ask.
"The university placed him on immediate leave pending investigation. Their board of trustees received an anonymous tip about improprieties with students."
"That will be all," I tell Mara, my fingers drumming against the pristine tablecloth. The evening has dragged on long enough.
Mara shifts her weight, her tablet clutched against her chest. The subtle furrow in her brow betrays her unease with how thoroughly I've dismantled Daniel's life. I ignore her concerned expression and signal for the check.
"One more thing," I say, adjusting my cuff links. "Order flowers for Sophia. Something elegant but not overstated. She must be devastated about her friend's... unfortunate circumstances."
Or maybe I should have said "ex." Sophia has no use for a friend like that.
Not with me around.