Chapter 101
Chapter 101:
Sterling stood alone in the silence. The room felt enormous. Cold.
He paced. He needed to rationalize this. It couldn’t be his fault. He was the Wall Street Wunderkind. He was the visionary.
“She sabotaged me,” he muttered, grabbing his hair. “She used that venture capital money to buy bot farms. That’s how she did it. She’s trying to get my attention. It’s a cry for help. She wants me to come save her from this… this fake empire she’s trying to build p>
Yes. That was it. Aurora was acting out. Like a child breaking a vase to get Daddy to look at her. She was spending her settlement and the investor money recklessly to hurt him.
He felt a surge of relief. If it was sabotage, he was the victim. If she wanted attention, he still had the power.
He marched to the bathroom. He turned on the shower, scrubbing his skin until it was red. He shaved with a trembling hand, nicking his jaw.
He dressed in his most expensive suit—a charcoal three-piece that cost more than most people’s cars. He put on his gold cufflinks. He armored himself in wealth.
He walked out of the penthouse.
“Driver!” he barked at the curb.
His usual driver, an old man named Peters, looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Where to, sir? The office? The board is waiting p>
“No,” Sterling said, adjusting his cuffs. “Take me to Pulse Interactive. I need to go accept her apology p>
Peters hesitated. “Sir… there are paparazzi everywhere. The stock p>
“Drive!” Sterling yelled.
He put on his sunglasses. He checked his reflection in the window. He practiced his face—a look of benevolent forgiveness, of a king granting mercy to a rebellious subject.
“I’ll take her back,” he whispered to himself. “I’ll be the bigger man p>
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The car pulled away from the curb, heading uptown.
Outside the tinted windows, the world was laughing at him. But inside the car, Sterling Thorne was still the hero of his own story, riding toward a confrontation he was destined to lose.
But as the car navigated the gridlock, Sterling’s confidence began to fracture. He tapped his foot impatiently. The city felt hostile today. The rain had started again, smearing the world into gray streaks.
“Traffic is stalled, sir,” Peters said, his eyes checking the rearview mirror nervously. “There’s a crowd near the Pulse building. A large one p>
Sterling leaned forward. “A crowd? Protesters p>
“No, sir. Fans p>
Sterling’s stomach dropped. He saw them as they turned the corner. Hundreds of people. Cameras. News vans. And standing at the entrance, like stone gargoyles, were private security contractors. Not rent-a-cops. These were professionals.
He saw Jones standing by the glass doors. The massive bodyguard crossed his arms, staring directly at Sterling’s approaching car.
“Stop,” Sterling hissed.