The morning broke heavy over The Imperial Crest. The city gleamed beneath the sunlight, but inside the tower, unease clung to the walls like fog.
Rita hadn't slept. She sat in her office, eyes red from hours of staring at the same paused security feed — Dalton, her colleague, her friend, sending files to their enemies.
The truth gnawed at her. Dalton had been with John since the beginning, loyal even during Sovereign's darkest days. If he was compromised, then everything they'd rebuilt was already crumbling from within.
Her phone buzzed, dragging her out of the spiral. It was Morgan Jud.
"You awake?" he asked when she answered.
"I haven't closed my eyes."
"Good," he said. "You were right about internal leaks. I ran a full audit. There are three active breach nodes in The Crest's internal system. One matches Dalton's terminal. The others are ghost lines — hidden relays rerouting through the finance department and the legal office."
Rita's blood ran cold. "Meaning?"
"Meaning Dalton isn't alone," Morgan said. "You're dealing with an entire network."
She leaned back, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Can you trace them?"
"Not yet," he said. "Whoever built this net used Sovereign's encryption structure. Someone on the outside supplied the framework."
Rita's throat tightened. "The Benefactor."
Morgan hesitated. "You've heard that name?"
"Michael mentioned it to someone," she said softly. "Whoever he's answering to, that's what they're called."
Morgan's tone dropped lower. "Then we're not just fighting a rival company. We're fighting a ghost organisation. You need to tell John."
She hesitated. "Not yet. Not until I know how deep Dalton's in. If I go to John now, he'll confront him. And if we're wrong…"
"You're risking everything."
"I know," she said. "But I can't accuse a man without proof."
Morgan sighed. "Then you'd better get it fast. Because they're not slowing down."
Downstairs, John stood before the board again. This time, their anger was louder. The fabricated scandals had multiplied overnight. Global View accused The Crest of laundering Sovereign funds. Anonymous investors demanded transparency.
"I've given this company everything," John said evenly, though his patience was wearing thin. "If any of you think for a second I'll let ghosts rewrite our legacy, you're free to leave."
One board member, Mr Han, adjusted his glasses. "Legacy doesn't pay dividends, Mr Raymond. Trust does. And right now, the world doesn't trust The Crest."
John's gaze hardened. "Then rebuild it."
Ms Patel spoke next, her tone sharp. "With what? Half our contracts are frozen. The Dubai project's been delayed again because of these reports."
John stepped closer to the table. "You think this is a coincidence? This is a coordinated attack, funded and directed by the same network that built Sovereign."
Linton scoffed. "You have no proof of that."
"Not yet," John said. "But when I do, I'll make sure every one of them watches their empire burn."
The tension was suffocating. Finally, Linton stood. "You're too emotional, John. You can't lead effectively when you're driven by revenge."
John's voice cut cold. "Then you're free to resign."
Linton hesitated, his face pale. He gathered his papers and left the room.
When the door closed, John exhaled and turned toward the window. The skyline stretched endlessly — beautiful, powerful, deceitful.
He could feel it again — the storm building.
Later that day, Rita entered his office. She forced a calm expression, but the weight of what she knew pressed behind her eyes.
"You look exhausted," John said.
"So do you," she replied.
He managed a small smile. "At least we're consistent."
She sat down. "I've been looking into the leaks."
"And?"
"There's more than one. I think Dalton might have been manipulated. Or blackmailed."
John's brows furrowed. "Dalton?"
"I'm not certain," she said quickly. "I just need a little more time before jumping to conclusions."
John's tone softened. "Rita, if something's wrong, I need to know."
She hesitated. "I'll tell you when I have proof. Right now, focus on the board."
He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine. But be careful. We're walking on glass."
When she left, John turned to the glass wall, his reflection staring back at him — calm on the surface, fire underneath.
That evening, in a luxury suite across the city, Michael Adison poured a drink for Andrew Cole. The two men watched a muted news broadcast of their handiwork — reporters debating John's leadership and the morality of The Crest's rise.
Andrew smirked. "He's losing ground. The press loves a fallen hero."
Michael swirled his glass. "Don't get comfortable. Raymond's unpredictable. He's not the kind who breaks quietly."
Andrew leaned back, unbothered. "Then we'll make him scream loud enough for the world to hear."
At that moment, the lights flickered. A shadow moved across the far wall.
Michael straightened. "Who's there?"
The door opened soundlessly, and The Benefactor stepped in — the air seemed to shift with his presence.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice smooth and cold. "Enjoying your progress?"
Andrew stood quickly. "We've destabilised his public image. Within weeks, he'll be isolated."
The Benefactor walked to the window, his reflection faint in the glass. "You've done well. But there's one problem. You're underestimating Raymond. He's survived worse."
Michael crossed his arms. "You talk like you know him."
The Benefactor turned slightly, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. "I know what men like him become when cornered. They stop caring about rules."
He set a folder on the table. "Here's your next move. Leak this file to the Crest's board. Make them believe one of their own plans to overthrow Raymond."
Andrew frowned. "And if they find out it's false?"
The Benefactor's eyes glinted. "By then, it won't matter."
At The Crest headquarters, night had fallen again. The office floor was empty, the only sound the soft hum of air conditioning.
John remained in his office, working through the latest press statements. His phone buzzed — an unknown number.
He hesitated, then answered. "Raymond."
The line crackled, and a distorted voice came through. "You think the war is outside your walls, but it isn't. Look closer."
John's muscles tensed. "Who is this?"
"Check your email," the voice said. "Consider it a gift."
The call ended.
He opened his inbox. A single message sat at the top, with no sender or subject. He clicked it.
A single image appeared — a photograph taken from a hidden angle inside the boardroom. In the image, one of his board members, Ms. Patel, sat with Michael Adison in a restaurant.
Beneath the photo was a single line of text:
The next headline won't be about corruption. It'll be your obituary.
John stared at the screen, the image's reflection burning against his eyes.
Someone inside the board wanted him gone — and now, the war had just crossed from business into blood.