A familiar voice narrated over the footage, Shannon’s voice. She claimed I had installed hidden cameras to blackmail her best friend, drugged her drink and lured her into my home under the pretense of caring for my daughter.
Shannon said she’d released the footage with her best friend’s consent, in pursuit of “justice.” That word alone became the dagger. The internet erupted.
“Scum.”
“Beast.”
“Rot in prison.”
Each comment struck like a stone. Then came the second video, filmed in my office, showing me signing a house purchase agreement.
The caption read: [Divorced for years, ex-husband plots criminally, using the idea of gifting his wife a house to clear his name.]
Shannon was pictured as a calm, flawless victim. The narrative had been sealed: I was the predator, while she was the saint.
And when the third post dropped, a text claiming I’d gouged out Henry’s eye and murdered Shannon’s uncle, it was over.
Within hours, I was a trending headline. Employees resigned in large numbers. Protesters appeared outside my company gates, shouting curses I couldn’t hear.
Competitors joined the feeding frenzy, spreading fabricated “evidence.” My PR team was silent. Meanwhile, Shannon was out there, visiting my parents, fighting for custody of my daughter, saying she only wanted to protect the child.
But I was not done. Inside the detention center, things shifted. Several inmates suddenly requested transfers to my cell.
When the guards left, they surrounded me. I smiled. “So, her influence reaches even here. Good. That means it’s almost time.”
“You filthy bastard! How can you still smile?” one spat.
“What else should I do?” I lay down on my bed, utterly at ease. Behind me, the men I’d placed here in advance stood, silent walls of muscle.
The newcomers froze. A voice came from the corner. “Mr. Madron, there’s chaos outside. They say your name’s topping every chart.”
I nodded, eyes sharp. “Then it’s time to turn the tide. Set a meeting with Shannon.”
