In the space of a single week, Derek Vance's meticulously constructed world of glossy appearances imploded. His funding evaporated as key investors pulled out, spooked by the sudden regulatory scrutiny and damning leaks about his business practices. Lawsuits from past clients materialized like specters. His assets were frozen, his Porsche repossessed, and his face was splashed across the business section under headlines like "Vulture Capitalist Grounded" and "Vance Capital Collapse: Predatory Practices Exposed." Simultaneously, Karras found his livelihood evaporating. His licenses were revoked, his client list (with names redacted but implications clear) was published on a civic watchdog site, and rumors of criminal investigation swirled. He packed a bag and disappeared from Veridia, a ghost chased away by a more powerful specter.
At the Daily Grind, now with a boarded-up window being replaced, Chloe watched the news unfold on her small TV behind the counter. The suddenness, the thoroughness of the destruction, felt targeted, personal, and wildly disproportionate. It reeked of a massive, unseen hand swatting a fly with a sledgehammer. And it coincided, with impeccable timing, with Marcus's sudden, heartbreaking disappearance. Her mind, already sharp and now honed by betrayal, began connecting the impossible dots. The mysterious, impossibly timely grant. His evasiveness about his past. His uncanny ability to "look into" Derek Vance. The unconscious authority that sometimes leaked into his voice, the way he carried himself when he thought no one was looking. The timing was the final, glaring clue: Marcus leaves, and his rival is annihilated days later.
Fueled by a volatile cocktail of betrayal, furious curiosity, and a desperate need for closure, she launched her own investigation. She used every resource—called a friend who was a journalist, spent nights in the public library's digital archives, combed through years of society pages and tech summit coverage. And then, on a grainy, low-resolution photo from a Forbes tech conference three years prior, she found him. It was a crowd shot, but he was at the center. Marcus Thorne, CEO of the Thorne Group. In a bespoke suit that cost more than her café's monthly revenue, surrounded by flashing cameras, his face was austere, powerful, utterly alien. The eyes behind different glasses were harder, the set of his jaw was that of a conqueror, but the bone structure, the curve of his lips, the slight dimple in his chin… it was undeniably, terrifyingly him. The caption listed his net worth: estimated $87 billion. The printout trembled in her hands. The man who had shared her rooftop, her fears, her laughter, her almost-kiss… was a phantom, a trillionaire slumming it. The hurt solidified into a cold, white-hot core of anger. She had the truth. Now, she would deliver it.