Chapter 561
Chapter 561:
“The caption says, ‘While her estranged husband fought to save their company, she was warming another bed,’” Julian read, disgust in his voice.
Skye stopped pacing. “Lucian p>
“He’s trying to discredit you before the Gala tomorrow,” Julian said. “He knows if you walk in there with a reputation, he can spin the narrative. He wants you to look like the villain so his ‘wedding’ to Victoria looks like a fairy tale p>
“It’s lazy,” Skye muttered. “He’s reusing old plays p>
She walked over to her desk and pressed the intercom. “Harper? Get in here p>
Harper Carter, the head of Oracle’s cybersecurity (and Felix’s younger, more rebellious sister), walked in. She was chewing gum and wearing a hoodie that said I READ YOUR EMAILS.
“What’s up, Boss?” Harper asked.
“Track the source of the photos,” Skye ordered. “Not the bots retweeting it. The patient zero p>
Harper cracked her knuckles and sat at Skye’s terminal. Her fingers flew across the keyboard. “Give me two minutes p>
Skye watched the code cascade down the screen.
“Got it,” Harper said, popping a bubble. “User handle: ‘The Nightcrawler.’ He’s a broker. Usually sells to TMZ, but this time he pushed it directly to a bot farm p>
“Location p>
“He’s using a VPN chain… bouncing through Russia, Brazil.” Harper squinted. “Wait, he slipped up. A momentary disconnect on the third hop. I have a physical address. It’s local p>
Harper pointed to a map on the screen. “Westside Electronics Graveyard. It’s a squatters’ paradise p>
Skye grabbed her coat. “Let’s go p>
“I’m coming,” Julian said, standing up.
“No.” Skye pushed him back gently. “You stay here and manage the board. If the stock dips, buy it back. Harper, you’re with me p>
Thirty minutes later, Skye’s armored SUV rolled into the Westside district. It was a graveyard of technology—piles of old CRT monitors, tangled wires, and rusted server racks piled high like dystopian sculptures.
𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗽𝗹𝗲𝘁𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲.𝗰𝗼𝗺
They stopped in front of a corrugated metal shack that hummed with the sound of industrial cooling fans.
Harper kicked the door. “Open up! Pizza delivery p>
There was a scuffling sound inside, then silence.
Harper looked at Skye, shrugged, and kicked the lock. The metal gave way with a screech.
Skye stepped inside. The air was hot and smelled of ozone and stale energy drinks. The room was dark, lit only by the blue glow of two dozen monitors arranged in a semicircle. A figure in a hooded sweatshirt was scrambling toward a back window, trying to shove a hard drive into a backpack.
“Don’t move,” Skye said.
The figure froze.
Harper flipped a switch on the wall. A bare bulb flickered to life.
The “Nightcrawler” turned around.
He wasn’t a hardened criminal. He was a kid—maybe twenty years old, pale, skinny, with dark circles under his eyes and glasses taped at the bridge.
He looked at Skye, then at Harper, and dropped the backpack. “Please don’t kill me,” he squeaked. “I just post the pictures! I don’t take them p>