Chapter 65: The Puppet Master Victor POV

I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking as I adjusted my tie with a quick tug, the office quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. My desk was piled with contracts, the Argus Corp acquisition papers sitting front and center, their edges crisp and untouched. I grabbed a pen from the holder, twirling it between my fingers, the weight satisfying in my hand.

"Time to seal this," I muttered, pulling the top contract closer, flipping to the signature page with a flick of my wrist. I signed with a flourish, my pen scratching the paper, the ink flowing black and bold—Victor Sinclair. I smirked, tossing the pen onto the desk, the clatter echoing as I reached for the next one, signing again, stacking them neatly to my right.

I stood, pacing to the cabinet by the window, my shoes clicking on the hardwood. I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, twisting the cap off with a pop, pouring a generous splash into a glass, the amber liquid glugging out. "To victory," I said, raising the glass, taking a sip, the burn sliding down my throat as I walked back to my chair.

I set the glass down with a soft clink, picking up my phone, scrolling to Janet’s number in PR. I tapped the screen, pacing again as it rang, my fingers drumming against my thigh. "Janet, it’s Victor," I said when she answered, stopping to adjust a photo frame on my desk—a shot of me shaking hands with a senator.

"Mr. Sinclair," she replied, her voice crisp, papers rustling on her end. "What’s the play?"

"Argus Corp’s ours—I just signed the papers," I said, grabbing a coaster and sliding my glass onto it, the wood scraping lightly. "Spin it big. Make Ethan the scapegoat—Sinclair saves the day."

She paused, clicking a pen in the background. "Ethan Blake as the fall guy? That’s... bold."

"Bold’s my middle name," I shot back, smirking as I picked up the whiskey again, swirling it in the glass. "Say he mismanaged Argus into ruin—Sinclair swoops in, rescues jobs, stabilizes the market."

"Got it," she said, her keyboard clacking now. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," I added, pacing to the window, pushing the blinds aside with my fingers, peering out at the city skyline, a pigeon flapping past. "Push it hard—TV, papers, online. I want his name mud by morning."

"Timeline’s tight, but I’ll make it happen," she replied, her chair squeaking as she shifted. "Draft by noon?"

"Perfect," I said, sipping the whiskey, the ice clinking against the glass as I set it back down. "Don’t skimp—bury him."

I hung up, tossing the phone onto the desk, the thud muffled by the papers. "Ethan’s down, Sophia’s caged—two birds, one stone," I muttered, grabbing a cigar from the box on my shelf, rolling it between my fingers. I snipped the end with a cutter, the snap sharp, then lit it with a match, puffing smoke into the air, the scent curling around me.

I walked to my chair, sinking into it, kicking my feet up on the desk, crossing my ankles. "Control," I said, exhaling a ring of smoke, watching it drift toward the ceiling. I grabbed the signed contracts, flipping through them again, my thumb brushing the ink on my signature.

The door opened, Morris stepping in, his briefcase swinging as he set it on the floor with a thud. "Victor, acquisition’s locked—legal’s filed everything," he said, adjusting his tie, pulling a folder from his bag.

"Good," I replied, tapping ash into a tray, the gray flakes scattering. "No hitches?"

"None," he said, handing me the folder, flipping it open to a page marked with a sticky note. "Argus is Sinclair’s now—full merger by next quarter."

I took the folder, skimming it, tossing it onto the pile with a flick of my wrist. "Perfect. Ethan’s out, and I’m holding the reins."

Morris grabbed a pen from his pocket, clicking it open and closed. "Media’s already buzzing—your PR push?"

"Janet’s on it," I said, puffing the cigar again, the smoke swirling as I leaned back. "Ethan’s the villain—poor judgment, reckless hires. Sinclair’s the hero."

He nodded, tucking the pen away, picking up his briefcase. "Smart move. Keeps the heat off you."

"Always does," I replied, smirking, grabbing my whiskey glass, swirling it before taking another sip. "Anything else?"

"Not yet," he said, heading for the door, swinging it open. "I’ll check in tomorrow."

I waved him off, the door clicking shut behind him. I stood, pacing to the cabinet, topping off my glass, the bottle clinking against the rim. "Both companies under me," I said, my voice low, sipping the whiskey as I walked to the window again, peering out at the dusk settling over the city, streetlights flickering on.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling through emails, my thumb pausing on a memo from security—new keycards issued, access tightened. "No leaks," I muttered, tossing the phone back onto the desk, picking up a paperweight and rolling it in my hand.

The door opened again, my assistant Lisa stepping in, her heels tapping softly, a report in her grip. "Mr. Sinclair, got something for you," she said, handing it over, adjusting her glasses with a quick nudge.

I took it, flipping it open, my cigar resting on the tray, smoke curling up. "What’s this?" I asked, scanning the first page—phone logs.

"Call records you asked for," she replied, picking up a stray pen from my desk, setting it in the holder. "Caught my eye—Vanessa’s been busy."

I stopped, my finger tracing a line—multiple calls to Sophia’s number, dates and times glaring back at me. "Seeing Sophia, huh?" I said, my voice dropping, tossing the report onto the desk, the pages fanning out as suspicion sparked in my gut.