The morning after the disaster, the headlines were merciless.
> "KingTech's Grand Launch Crashes — Was It Sabotage?"
"Event Coordinator Suspended After System Meltdown."
Every article carried a photo of Amelia, snapped as she walked out of the hotel with tears streaking her face.
The internet did what it always did — spun rumors out of thin air and turned strangers into villains.
Amelia sat at her friend Lydia's small apartment, laptop closed, phone buzzing nonstop.
She'd muted every notification hours ago.
Her reflection in the window looked like someone else — the poised professional she'd tried to be, now replaced with a ghost of exhaustion.
Lydia slid a cup of coffee toward her. "You need to drink something, Ame."
Amelia gave a weak smile. "I've had enough caffeine to fuel a plane."
"Then drink it anyway," Lydia said gently, sitting across from her. "You didn't deserve that. You worked your ass off for that event."
Amelia's throat tightened. "He thinks I ruined it. He didn't even listen, Lyd. He just… looked at me like I was dirt under his shoe."
Lydia frowned. "That cold billionaire needs therapy. And a heart."
Amelia almost laughed. Almost. "He doesn't do hearts. Just business."
"Then make him regret underestimating you," Lydia said firmly. "You're not some random intern, Amelia. You're good. Go clear your name."
She wanted to — God, she wanted to — but something inside her still trembled. Because fighting Christopher King meant walking right back into the lion's den.
And part of her wasn't sure she could survive it again.
---
Across the city, inside the steel-and-glass tower of King's Corporation, Christopher stood in front of the boardroom windows, his reflection dark against the morning skyline.
"Damage report," he ordered without turning.
His assistant, Mark, cleared his throat. "The press coverage is bad, sir. We've issued statements blaming a 'technical malfunction,' but investors are nervous."
Christopher's jaw flexed. "Find out who tampered with the presentation files."
"We're already digging, sir. But the system was breached from an internal access point."
That caught his attention. He turned, eyes sharp. "Internal?"
"Yes, sir."
Mark hesitated. "And… we traced part of the breach to Miss Bennett's department."
Christopher's expression barely changed, but something flickered behind his cold eyes.
"You're saying Clara's team could've caused this?"
"I'm saying someone on her team might have," Mark corrected quickly. "We can't confirm who yet."
Christopher dismissed him with a wave, but the thought lingered long after Mark left.
Clara had looked too calm last night. Too composed for someone who'd just witnessed his career nearly collapse.
And Amelia's face — that mix of shock, pain, and humiliation — had been too raw to fake.
He sank into his chair, loosening his tie. "Damn it."
For the first time, doubt crept in.
---
Later that afternoon, his phone buzzed.
Clara Bennett.
"Chris," her voice purred through the line. "You're not still upset about last night, are you?"
He leaned back, eyes on the skyline. "The launch nearly collapsed, Clara. I have every right to be upset."
She sighed dramatically. "You can't blame that poor girl forever. Maybe she just wasn't cut out for corporate life."
His eyes narrowed. "Funny. You seem awfully invested in defending her all of a sudden."
Clara hesitated. "I'm just saying… she's clearly not your type. I saw the way she looked at you last night. Desperate."
Christopher's voice turned flat. "This isn't about type, Clara. It's about competence."
"Of course." Her tone cooled, silky but brittle. "Anyway, I have a dinner reservation tonight. Join me?"
He hesitated — then said, "Not tonight."
There was silence on the other end, sharp and telling. "Fine," she said finally, voice dripping with wounded pride. "Goodnight, Chris."
When the call ended, he sat there for a long time, staring at the city lights — wondering why the image stuck in his mind wasn't of Clara in her red gown…
but of Amelia, standing alone as the crowd whispered around her.
---
That night, Amelia lay in bed scrolling through her messages. Dozens of rejections from recruiters. One from HR confirming her suspension.
And one from Aunt Chloe.
> Chloe: The kids miss you. Ethan asked if you're still sad.
Her fingers trembled as she typed back.
> Amelia: Tell them I'm fine. I'll call tomorrow.
Seconds later —
> Chloe: Don't let this break you, Amy. You've survived worse. Remember who you are.
A tear slipped down her cheek. She whispered to the dark, "I'm trying."
---
Meanwhile, in his penthouse across Nova Heights, Christopher poured himself a drink.
The security footage from the launch glowed on his screen. He slowed the video frame by frame — and froze.
In the reflection of a glass panel near the stage, a faint silhouette appeared.
Not Amelia. Someone from Clara's department.
His expression hardened.
He picked up his phone. "Mark . Get me every employee who had access to the event files. I want names by morning."
He ended the call, exhaling sharply.
For the first time since the disaster, Christopher King wasn't angry. He was curious.
And curiosity was far more dangerous.
---