Chapter 30 #30
Chapter 30
Dante
“What brings you here today Father?” I asked innocently as if I didn't know.
"Do you know what I saw this morning when I opened my tablet?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Father, I can explain…"
"I saw my son," he continued as if I hadn't spoken, "my heir, the CEO of this company, the man I've invested billions of dollars in, splashed across every gossip site and news outlet in the city. With. Another. Woman."
Each word was punctuated with emphasis, landing like physical blows.
"Those photos are fake," I said quickly. "AI-generated deepfakes. My PR team is already…"
"I don't care if they're fake or real," my father interrupted, his voice rising now. "What I care about is that they exist at all. What I care about is that you've been so reckless, so careless, that someone was able to get close enough to you to take those pictures, real or fabricated."
"I wasn't being reckless…"
"You're always being reckless!" he shouted, slamming his hand on the arm of his wheelchair. "You think I don't know about your habits? Your late nights at clubs? Your secretaries? You think I'm blind to what you've been doing to that girl you married?"
I clenched my jaw. "My personal life is my own business."
"Not when it affects my company!" he shot back. "Not when it makes us look like a joke! Not when you're dragging the Belmar name through the mud for every competitor and enemy we have to see!"
"I'm handling it," I said through gritted teeth.
"You're not handling anything," he said coldly. "You're letting yourself get ridiculed. You're putting yourself out there like some common playboy instead of the leader of a multi-billion dollar corporation. You're making us all look weak."
I wanted to argue, I wanted to defend myself, but years of experience had taught me that talking back to my father when he was in this mood only made things worse.
He leaned forward in his wheelchair, his eyes narrowing. "Let me be very clear with you, Dante. I am this close," he held up his thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart, "to removing you from consideration for chairman entirely. Do you understand me? This close."
My stomach dropped. "Father, you can't…"
"I can and I will," he said flatly.
The words stung more than I wanted to admit.
"I'll fix it," I said firmly. "The photos will be gone within the hour. The story will die. And I'll be more careful going forward."
"You'd better be," he said. "Because I'm not giving you another chance after this. One more scandal, one more embarrassment, one more reason for me to question your judgment, and that's it. You're done."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
He started to turn his wheelchair toward the door, but then he paused. He looked back at me, and there was something else in his eyes now. Something calculating.
"And lastly," he said, his voice taking on a different tone, "I want to remind you that time is ticking for the project. You have less than three weeks now to develop and present something that will blow the board away. Less than three weeks to prove you're worthy of this position."
My chest tightened. "I'm aware of the timeline."
"Are you?" he asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you've been so busy managing your scandals and your marriage that you've forgotten about the one thing that actually matters."
"I haven't forgotten…"
"Then show me something," he demanded. "Show me progress. Show me innovation. Show me why I should choose you over your brother who, by the way, is already weeks ahead of you in development."
The words hit like ice water. "What?"
"Dwayne has been working around the clock," my father said with what might have been approval in his voice. "He's already completed the initial framework for his X-Intel model. He's running tests. Making improvements. While you've been putting out fires of your own making."
Fuck.
"I'll catch up," I said, trying to sound confident. "I have resources, I have…"
"You have three weeks," my father repeated. "Three weeks to prove you deserve to be chairman. Three weeks to show me you're more than just a scandal-prone playboy riding on one successful product launch."
He wheeled himself to the door, I opened the door for him seeing as he wanted to go out.
"Don't disappoint me again, Dante," he said without looking back. "I don't have the patience for it."
And then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like a gunshot.
I sat there in the silence of my office, my father's words echoing in my head.
Three weeks.
Three weeks to develop something revolutionary.
Three weeks to beat Dwayne.
Three weeks to secure my future.
Oh shoot!
The project.
How did I let that slip my mind?
I'd been so focused on managing Shailyn, on dealing with the scandal, on playing the devoted husband that I'd completely neglected the one thing that would actually determine my fate. The competition. The AI model that would prove once and for all that I deserved to lead this company.
But now Shailyn has fully healed.
That changed everything.
She was back at work, back in the office, back within my reach. Her amnesia meant she didn't remember the fights, didn't remember threatening divorce, didn't remember any of the reasons she'd been pulling away from me before the accident.
She was vulnerable. Malleable. Desperate to please me and prove she was a good wife.
What's left is how to make her do the project.
I leaned back in my chair, my mind already spinning with possibilities. I needed her to develop another AI model for me, something even more impressive than H-GPT. Something that would make Dwayne's X-Intel look like child's play.
But I couldn't just ask her directly. She might question it. Might wonder why I needed her help if I was supposed to be this brilliant CEO. Might start to suspect that H-GPT hadn't been entirely my creation.
No, I needed to be subtle. Strategic.
And I have just the perfect plan.
I smirked, feeling that familiar rush of satisfaction that came with solving a problem. The plan was forming in my mind, piece by piece, beautiful in its simplicity.
I'd appeal to her desire to help me. To support me. To be the devoted wife she thought she was supposed to be. I'd make her think the project was a collaboration, that we were working together as a team. I'd praise her brilliance while subtly directing her toward creating exactly what I needed.
And she'd do it willingly. Happily. Never suspecting that she was being used.
Just like last time.
My smirk widened into something darker, more predatory.
Perfect.
This was absolutely perfect.