Chapter 38 Web of Deceit
Ben Hargrove slammed his phone down on the glass coffee table in his condo, the sleek device skittering across the surface before teetering on the edge. The screen lit up with Maddie's contact photo, smiling, innocent, the perfect facade for their sham marriage. He stared at it for a second, rage bubbling like acid in his veins, then snatched it up and hurled it against the wall. The case cracked with a satisfying snap, but the screen stayed intact, mocking him.
"Damn it!" he roared, pacing the open-plan living room of his high-rise condo. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city skyline, now a blur of twinkling lights against the night, but Ben saw none of it.
His mind raced, replaying the call: Maddie's defiance, her sharp reminder that the marriage was fake. Fake. As if that erased the betrayal he could smell like cheap cologne.
He kicked at the table leg in frustration, harder than intended. Pain shot through his toe, and he hopped back, cursing a blue streak. "Son of a…! God, she wouldn't even let me touch or kiss her. If you're sleeping with him, Maddie, I'll bury you both."
Limping to the black leather couch, he collapsed, rubbing his foot while his thoughts spun into overdrive.
Alexander, untouchable, arrogant Alexander, with his hands on her? The image burned: shopping bags piled high, hands intertwined across the restaurant table, that possessive arm around her shoulders as they left. It wasn't family. It was intimate. Wrong.
"God help Alexander if he's touching her," Ben muttered to himself, voice low and venomous. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled as the plot began to form. "I'll make sure he crashes and burns. The company, the board, his precious reputation, gone."
Ben stood again, ignoring the throb in his foot, and poured a scotch from the bar cart. The amber liquid swirled in the crystal glass as he paced anew, mind sharpening like a blade. Evidence. That's what he needed. Concrete proof of the affair. Not suspicions or glimpses, something undeniable to wave in front of the board, the investors, the press.
First step: surveillance. He grabbed his laptop from the side table, flipping it open with one hand while sipping the scotch. His condo was a bachelor's dream, minimalist chrome and glass, abstract art on white walls, a massive TV dominating one corner. but tonight it felt like a war room. He logged into his private email, firing off a message to his "contact" a shady PI he'd used before for digging dirt on rivals.
Subject: Urgent Surveillance Job
Need eyes on Alexander Blackwood and Maddie Hargrove (my wife). Track movements, interactions, any... intimate moments. Start immediately. Penthouse location attached and two other places he has a house, suspect they're holed up there or nearby. Discreet. Pay triple for quick results.
He hit send, a grim smile curling his lips. The PI was good, discreet, ruthless, with tech that could hack security cams or plant bugs without a trace. If they were screwing around, he'd have photos, videos, timestamps.
But that was just the opener. Ben swirled his scotch, thinking bigger. The board was the real prize. Voss, Thorpe, Grant, those old fossils were already leaning his way, swayed by his marriage pitch and Eleanor's memory. If he could spin the affair as Alexander's moral failing, seducing his stepson's wife, it would shatter his image as the steady leader. Instability. Scandal. Stocks would plummet; investors would flee to safer harbors.
He opened a new document on his laptop: Operation Downfall.
Bullet points flowed:
Leak affair evidence anonymously to key board members first. Let whispers spread.
Time it before the next meeting, two weeks out. Hit when nominations are discussed.
Rally Voss et al.: Frame as betrayal of family values. Push for emergency vote to oust Alexander.
Backup: If proof's thin, fabricate hints, doctored photos, anonymous tips. I can handle it.
Endgame: Claim acting chair. Restructure the company my way, sell off "redundant" assets, pocket the gains.
Ben leaned back, sipping deeper. The pain in his foot dulled to a throb, fuel for his fire. Alexander had always looked down on him, the stepson tolerated but never truly welcomed. Now? Payback. If Maddie was in on it, she'd regret crossing him. No payout, no divorce settlement. She'd crawl back broke.
Another email: to Vanessa, his "lunch date" from yesterday, a sharp lawyer with board connections.
V: Need dirt on A.B.'s personal life. Discreet inquiries. Anything on affairs, weaknesses. Drinks tomorrow to discuss?
She'd bite. Always did.
Ben closed the laptop, a dark laugh escaping. "God help you, Alexander. If you're bedding her, you're done. I'll drag you down so hard, the pack or whatever Grant said he belonged to, whatever that secret club is, won't save you."
He drained the scotch, the burn matching his resolve. Plotting felt good, control in a world slipping from his grasp. Tomorrow, the PI will deliver. Evidence would mount. And when it all crashed down, he'd be the one standing tall.
The city lights mocked him through the windows, indifferent, eternal. But Ben smiled anyway. The game was on.
And he played to win.