Chapter 6 Friday, 12 June 2026 #2
Oliver sighed deeply. ‘But yes, to answer your question, when I arrived at Prescott, I was either sneered at or ignored. Fitting in was never going to be an option. I went the other way.’
‘I see,’ Detective Crews said. ‘And Madison DuPont – how did she treat you in school?’
‘Like shit.’ He gave the detectives a casual shrug. ‘I won’t pretend otherwise. It stung at the time, but that was ten years ago, and frankly, Madison wasn’t the worst offender. That honour went to Sebastian Beaumont.’
‘Either way, Madison had a powerful hold over her group of friends,’ Detective Wellesley said. ‘From what we’ve learned, she was the ringleader.’
‘A gross oversimplification of a complex set of adolescent dynamics,’ he countered. ‘But what does it matter? I never needed any of their approval, and I certainly don’t now. Morgan Row is thriving more than ever, and I have a fiercely dedicated following on YouTube.’
Detective Crews peered at his phone, then read aloud. ‘ “Oliver Morgan is the voice to listen to in luxury real estate for New Yorkers and aspiring New Yorkers who plan to own the Upper East Side – beautifully.” ’ He looked up. ‘That’s a mouthful. What exactly is it that you do?’
Oliver pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t have mentioned his channel; the conversation was getting into territory best avoided.
‘I vlog,’ he said simply. ‘I take my followers on virtual tours of high-end properties, introduce them to the residents and their tastes, and share advice for personal brand building.’
‘You’ve made quite a name for yourself. One point four million subscribers, although I see that’s down. This article mentioned almost two million several months ago. What happened?’
‘I have no idea,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘The internet is a volatile space.’
Agitated, Oliver ran his fingers along the underside of the desk.
They brushed against a nail head, and he jiggled it.
Out popped a drawer containing a well-worn deck of playing cards and several photo prints taken at a cocktail party at the club in the late ’70s.
Fascinating. Quickly, he jammed the drawer closed.
‘One more question,’ Detective Wellesley said. ‘Before tonight, when was the last time you interacted with Madison DuPont – in person or online?’
‘To be clear, I never interacted with Madison DuPont tonight. She had no time for me at Prescott, and that hasn’t changed.’
The detectives glanced at each other, then back at Oliver. ‘And when was the last time you spoke?’ Detective Wellesley repeated.
Oliver looked to the ceiling, deep in thought, then locked eyes with the detective questioning him.
No point in lying about the comment; it was public.
‘I ran into Madison – briefly – at one of her husband’s campaign events in late May.
Then she left a comment on my channel maybe a week later.
Before that… I guess the last time I saw her was at our five-year reunion.
Like I said, we don’t run in the same circles. ’
Two weeks ago
Oliver slammed his phone down on the gilt-streaked marble island in his kitchen.
‘That little bitch,’ he growled to the empty room.
Today alone, he’d lost another two thousand followers.
His account was positively haemorrhaging – and that needed to stop.
He pulled up Madison DuPont’s contact and stabbed the call icon with a shaking finger.
It rang three times. She won’t answer, the coward.
But then, a still-familiar, melodic voice filled his ear.
‘Oliver Morgan. Blast from the past.’
‘Madison.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘You just saw me last week.’
She didn’t respond. He was shaking with rage, but he needed to keep his voice steady.
Keep the situation under control before she did any more damage.
He scrolled to the comment she’d left on a recent post, a virtual tour of a breathtaking three-bedroom in a high-rise on East 76th.
The buyers, a couple in their late forties who had recently relocated from LA, had decorated the space in lovely, beachy naturals, but with enough old-world touches to subtly signal their intention to put down new roots.
He worked in finance; she was an executive at one of the major streamers.
They were just the kind of couple Oliver’s followers aspired to be – living exactly where they aspired to buy.
He read Madison’s comment out loud: ‘ “We know this channel is one giant ad, right? Morgan Row was the agent. As in Keith and Michelle Morgan, Oliver Morgan’s parents. Biased, much?” ’
There was a pause on the other end, then Madison’s voice sharpened. ‘It’s the truth, and you know it. You only show properties owned by Morgan Row clients. You call yourself a “lifestyle influencer”, but you’re just shilling for the family business.’
Oliver bristled. ‘I partner with buyers after they’ve moved in and made a luxury property their own. Sure, I connect with most of my partners through Morgan Row, but the apartments have already sold.’
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.
Oliver gained access to the jaw-dropping properties his followers drooled over.
And for the buyers, newly wealthy and usually new to New York, who frequently found themselves excluded from the high society profiles they were after, Oliver’s channel provided a kind of calling card – an announcement that they’d arrived on the Upper East. That they deserved to be taken seriously.
‘Besides,’ he continued, ‘you know Morgan Row represents buyers, not sellers. I’m giving my followers access to a lifestyle, not driving traffic to a listing.’
‘I don’t have time to argue semantics. Bottom line, you’re misrepresenting yourself. My brand partnerships are public. Your lack of transparency is revolting.’
‘Oh, please,’ he quipped. True, he didn’t identify Morgan Row as the buyer’s agent on his videos, but that was because he wasn’t running a real estate vlog.
His channel was about the lifestyle, not the listing.
Besides, he’d never hidden his connection to his parents’ business.
It was all publicly available information.
‘You give influencers a bad name,’ Madison snapped.
‘Is that what this is about?’ Oliver laughed. ‘You think because we’re both Prescott class of 2017, people associate us as influencers? That’s adorable, truly, I’m flattered.’
‘Call yourself a brand ambassador for Mummy and Daddy’s startup, and I’ll call off my dogs.’
‘So you admit you’re behind my drop in numbers,’ he snarled. ‘Real classy, Madison.’
‘I’m only getting started.’
Over the past decade, Madison had become a wildly popular Instagram influencer; she raked in an obscene amount of money from her brand partnerships. The more Oliver thought about it, the less likely it seemed that she truly felt threatened by the way he ran his YouTube channel.
More likely, she’d caught wind of his recent conversation with Bash.
‘We share followers,’ she said icily. ‘You know that.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she hissed. ‘Change your branding, or I can make things much nastier from here on out.’
Oliver’s temples throbbed; he was seconds away from losing his cool altogether. He dug his freshly manicured nails into his palm.
‘There’s something else going on here.’ His voice was steady, but cold. ‘You’ve spoken to Bash, I presume.’
There was a long pause, and Oliver waited. He was right, he had to be. This was what Madison was really afraid of.
When she spoke again, her voice was cheery. ‘Goodbye, Oliver. Lovely catching up.’
Then the line went dead.
‘Fuck.’ He slammed his fist into the island. The large crystal bowl of cocktail limes rattled.
Should he act on Bash’s intel? If he did, his YouTube career was sure to go up in flames. He couldn’t, right?
But the opportunity to strike Madison where it really hurt was way too good to leave on the table. If he chose to use the power Bash had handed him, he could get the bitch off his back, for ever.