Everyone wanted the CEO’s attention at singles night until she crossed the room and chose me

When the Maybach pulled up to the Mercer & Holloway Tower, the scene was absolute chaos.

Federal black SUVs with blue flashing lights were parked three-deep along the curb. Armed agents in tactical vests with "SEC-OIG" and "FBI" stenciled in yellow across their backs were moving through the revolving doors. A crowd of over two hundred reporters and furious retail investors screamed over the sirens.

"Don't stop the car," Vivian ordered the driver in a panic. "Turn around!"

"No," I grabbed her wrist, my voice cutting through her panic like a whip. "If we run, we're finished. That's what Elena wants. She wants a warrant issued for flight risk."

"Leo, look at them!" she cried, pointing at the federal agents swarming the lobby. "They have search warrants! They’re seizing the thirty-fifth floor!"

"Let them seize it," I said, staring at the chaos with cold, surgical focus. "The deepfake was uploaded from an external IP server in Frankfurt forty minutes ago. The digital watermarks on synthetic voice models can be reversed if we get to the primary fiber trunk in the executive mainframe before they pull the plugs."

Vivian looked at me, her eyes wide, realizing the insane gamble I was proposing. "The mainframe is on thirty-five. It's already surrounded."

"Marcus is still inside," I said, dialing my phone. "He controls the private service elevator in the loading dock. We have twelve minutes before the federal forensic team cuts the server power to preserve the hard drives."

I leaned forward, looking into her eyes. "Do you trust me, Vivian?"

She looked at the swarm of federal agents, then looked back at me. The heiress who had commanded boardrooms her entire adult life nodded slowly, a fierce, reckless fire reigniting behind her tears.

"To the death, Leo."

We slipped through the underground delivery tunnel beneath the Chicago River, bypassing the lobby media circus entirely. Marcus was waiting at the service freight lift, his face grim, his sidearm unbuttoned under his blazer.

"They're on thirty-four right now serving warrants to HR," Marcus whispered as we stepped inside the steel cage. "The federal prosecutor is leading the team personally. Assistant US Attorney Miller."

"Take us to thirty-five," I said. "And shut off the elevator bank's hydraulic override behind us."

The lift groaned as it shot up through the core of the skyscraper.

When the doors opened onto the private penthouse floor, the silence was deafening. The golden morning light flooded the vast, modern penthouse suite. Everything was untouched—the silk sofas, the modern art, the remnants of our champagne glasses from two nights ago still sitting on the marble island.

I sprinted toward the private study, kicking open the concealed mahogany panel that led to the private executive server rack.

My fingers flew across the keyboard, bypassing three levels of biometric security.

"Vivian, give me your master token," I ordered.

She pulled the silver encryption fob from her necklace and slammed it into the USB drive.

Lines of green code scrolled frantically across the dual monitors.

"They used an enterprise synthesis algorithm," I muttered, tracking the audio artifact signatures in real-time. "The source audio wasn't recorded by Elena Cross. It wasn't recorded by Julian."

Vivian stood behind me, watching the screen. "Then who recorded it?"

The code resolved.

The origin IP of the source audio file wasn't Germany. It was routed through an encrypted satellite terminal registered to a yacht currently anchored off the coast of Miami.

Registered to the estate of Arthur Mercer.

Vivian gasped, stepping back, her hands flying to her mouth. "That's... that's impossible. My father's yacht was decommissioned four years ago."

"The yacht wasn't decommissioned, Vivian," a voice called out from the open doorway behind us.

We both spun around.

Standing in the entrance of the study, holding an unlit cigar and flanked by two men in dark trench coats, was a man in his late sixties with silver hair, piercing gray eyes, and a walking cane topped with a polished gold eagle.

Arthur Mercer.