Chapter 71 72
Darren POV
I was in my office, elbows on the glass desk, scrolling through next quarter’s investor reports when my phone rang.
Jeremy.
I frowned. My brother never called during work hours. He hated interruptions as much as I did. But the screen was flashing, and something in my gut twisted the moment I answered.
“Darren,” he hissed. “It’s happening.”
I sat up straight. “What?”
“Someone dug it up. It’s online.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I stood, already pacing toward the tinted window overlooking the city.
“The thing,” he said sharply. “The fight. That kid from high school. The one I—damn it, the one I hit when I was drunk. It’s everywhere.”
My heart dropped.
“What do you mean everywhere?”
“There’s a Reddit thread. Two Facebook pages. Some gossip blog. It’s got my name. Pictures. Screenshots. Some idiot even found the local article that dad paid to get buried.”
I gritted my teeth. “Stay calm. Just—send me the links.”
“I already did. Check your inbox. Darren, they know. They know.”
I pulled up my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. Sure enough, my personal email was pinging with a dozen forwarded links. One post had a photo of Jeremy in high school, half-cropped, laughing at some party. The caption underneath?
“THIS GUY KILLED SOMEONE AT 17 AND GOT AWAY WITH IT BECAUSE OF DADDY’S MONEY.”
I scrolled further.
Thread after thread. Alleged witness names. Scans of blurry yearbook pages. Speculation about the victim. People digging into timelines, charity records, corporate histories. It wasn’t just a rumor—it was a storm.
My jaw clenched. “We paid to bury this.”
“Apparently not deep enough,” Jeremy growled.
I turned, storming across the office toward the liquor cabinet. “Did you say anything to anyone? Anyone recently?”
“No! Of course not. I don’t talk about that night. Ever. And neither should you.”
“Someone's been digging. This wasn’t random.”
I poured myself two fingers of bourbon and stared at the amber liquid. Ice cold fury prickled up my spine. The Johnson name was clean. Polished. Built on control. We didn’t leave blood in the streets—we paid people to mop it up quietly.
But this wasn’t just some bored internet troll. This was strategic.
“Who benefits from this?” I muttered.
Jeremy went quiet. “You think someone’s targeting us?”
“Someone smart. Patient. Knows where the bones are buried.” I stared out at the skyline, the distant hum of sirens in my ears. “And they’re not coming for you, Jer. You’re just the warning shot.”
I swallowed the drink in one go.
“They’re coming for me.”
The next day, I woke up to fire.
Not literal flames—though I would’ve preferred that over the raging inferno in my inbox, my phone, and the headlines.
Another article. Another damn piece.
I was still in bed, my arm slung over my eyes, trying to ignore the buzz of my phone on the nightstand. But it didn’t stop. Not once. And when my assistant called for the third time before 8 a.m., I finally picked up.
“What now?” I muttered, voice gravelly.
“You need to see this,” she said, breathless. “It’s everywhere. Twitter. Tiktok. Even the dailies picked it up. They’re calling it The Rooftop Incident.”
I sat up. “What?”
“I’m emailing you the article.”
A second later, the notification came through. I clicked.
“Bullies in Blazers: The Untold Story of Darren Johnson and the Boy Who Jumped”
I didn’t even breathe.
The article dragged everything into the light—the rumors from our elite high school, the whispers about me and Jeremy terrorizing a shy kid named Paul. “Pizza Face Paul” we used to call him. Too many pimples. Too many notebooks. He was an easy target. Weak. A joke.
We never hit him. Not really.
But we cornered him. Mocked him. Locked his books in the janitor’s closet. Stole his gym shorts before PE.
One day, he climbed to the rooftop.
And jumped.
He didn’t die—but he shattered both his legs and spine. Never walked again without a cane. His parents moved him away before the semester ended, and his name was never mentioned again. My father made sure of that.
Until now.
I scrolled further. Photos. Quotes. Someone had found Paul. Or someone claiming to be him. He didn’t want revenge. He just wanted to be heard. To “heal.”
He said my name.
He said my brother’s.
I clenched my jaw so hard I thought it might crack. My stomach twisted, not out of guilt—but out of the horrifying realization that this wasn’t just a coincidence. This was precision. Every skeleton in the Johnson closet being unearthed, polished, and paraded for the public like a damn circus act.
Jeremy called again, panicking.
“Did you see it? They’re making us look like criminals, Darren!”
I didn’t answer. I was already moving. Shirt on. Tie abandoned. Hair still messy.
“Who is doing this to us?” he yelled.
I stared at myself in the mirror.
I had a long list of enemies. Business rivals. Bitter exes. Ruined partners.
But only one person had been close enough to know the cracks beneath the gold.
Only one person I let see the real me.
And she was supposed to be gone.
“Find out who Paul spoke to,” I said coldly into the phone. “Track the blog. Trace the IPs. Call every PR firm in the city. I want this buried so deep, not even God can resurrect it.”
Jeremy stammered, but I ended the call.
I wasn’t afraid of the truth.
I was afraid of who was behind it.
And if this was what they were capable of…
Then war had already begun.