Chapter 3

Three mornings later, Victoria released a statement on television and online at the same time. Her tone was restrained, but every word was certain: Allen had died in a car crash on the coastal road and gone into the sea.

Speaking as his fiancée, she thanked everyone for their concern, announced a memorial service for Allen, and promised she would “protect the group he built with his own hands” so no one could take advantage of the chaos.

Less than an hour after the statement aired, major outlets began running it on a loop.

In the video, she wore a long black dress. Her eyes were red, and her fingers clutched her engagement ring as if she were squeezing the last of her composure into her palm.

The comments were almost completely on her side—calling her “a victim of fate,” calling her “brave.”

I watched the clip in Ben Harris’s private clinic, then turned off the screen without a word.

She had staged it perfectly: first define the death, then define herself, and finally define who should control the group.

Once the public accepted that narrative, any pushback from the board would look like people grabbing power while the body was still warm.

Harris slid a document across the table. The pages were still warm from the printer.

“The memorial service layout,” he said. “You asked me to get it. I did.”

I opened it. Inside were the venue floor plan, the guest list, the entry sequence, media camera positions, the full schedule—down to the security shift changes.

Victoria was holding the service in the city-center memorial hall. Formal, public, impossible to ignore.

Every director was on the guest list. Reporters from the major outlets were there. Even a few finance-column regulars who usually stayed away from anything emotional.

Most importantly, Ryan was invited too.

I closed the list and looked at Harris. “What does she plan to do after the service?”

“It’s right here.” Harris tapped the final item on the schedule. “After the speeches, the host will announce the group’s next steps. He’ll say Victoria will handle all matters under Allen’s name—assets, shares, signing authority. The directors will be asked to make statements on-site. Media will film the handshakes, the signatures, the nods.”

That was it.

The memorial wasn’t goodbye.

It was a transfer.

Outside the hall, cars were lined up—black, silver—like a slow-moving procession.

At the entrance, white flowers were stacked beside a huge portrait of Allen. In the photo he smiled gently, eyes clean, as if he’d never seen the world’s teeth.

Staff guided reporters inside. Photographers adjusted angles. Lights were aimed at the wreaths. Even grief had been scheduled to the minute.

I pulled my cap low, put on a mask, and wore a black coat—just another early mourner.

I entered through a side door, avoided the densest camera zones according to the layout, and took a seat toward the back.

The air-conditioning was turned down. The air smelled of flowers and scented oil, so carefully managed it barely smelled like people at all.

Allen’s portrait stood onstage beside black drapes and candles. The host murmured through his script with staff. Below, directors exchanged quiet greetings—soft voices, but with the edge of people testing the wind.

When Victoria appeared, the room fell silent for a beat. She wore a fitted black dress, hair pinned up, her neck long and exposed.

She stepped to the front and held a sheet of paper with both hands, like it was the last thing keeping her upright.

Cameras swung toward her in unison.

She lifted her head and took a breath.

“Allen and I were together for two years,” she began, speaking slowly, as if reminiscing. “He was never someone who liked the spotlight. He preferred the office—quiet work, quiet life. He was always gentle with people. Even when others weren’t kind to him, he still believed they had their reasons.”

Tears slid down her cheeks. Not a breakdown—just the exact amount of control slipping, on cue.

“These last two years, we went through so much,” Victoria continued. “He was injured, he recovered, he stood up again. I’ve seen him at his weakest, and I’ve seen him stay up all night for this group. I know he keeps everything inside. He never wants to trouble anyone.”

She painted Allen as a good man who needed protection, and herself as the only person who understood him—the only one qualified to carry the burden for him.

I sat in the audience with my fingers resting on my knee, not moving, just watching her eyes. She was crying, but her gaze was clear. She was counting cameras, counting reactions, counting which directors looked away and which leaned in. She wasn’t losing a fiancé. She was completing a handover.

As she raised her hand to wipe her tears, someone behind her extended a tissue. The movement was smooth, practiced, like a rehearsal.

Ryan.

He wore a black suit and stood half a step behind her. He murmured something. Victoria gave a small nod, pinching the tissue like she’d just been comforted.

The host walked onstage and guided the program toward its closing.

In a steady voice, he summarized Allen’s “contributions,” thanked everyone for coming, and then turned naturally toward the future of the group. “For stability and continuity,” he said, “someone must temporarily take on responsibility for ongoing matters.”

I heard chairs shift. Directors leaned forward.

Now it was coming.

The host glanced down at his cue card, about to announce the “next steps,” when I stood up from my seat—slowly, but unmistakably.

I moved into the aisle. Heads turned as if pulled by a wire.

I stopped near the front, lifted my hand, removed my cap, and pulled down my mask.

The moment the lights hit my face, the room went blank for an instant. Someone opened their mouth but made no sound. Someone else stepped back without thinking, like they’d seen something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

A photographer’s lens jerked, then snapped into frantic focus, terrified of missing the shot of a lifetime.

“Who is that?” someone whispered.

“Allen?” another voice rose sharper. “No—impossible… they said—”

Victoria was onstage. The grief on her face froze mid-frame.

Tears still clung to her lashes, but the corner of her mouth locked for half a second. Half a second was enough: she wasn’t relieved. She was caught off guard.

Then she recovered.

Her first move wasn’t to step back, and it wasn’t to question me. It was to go forward—like she’d done a hundred times before—and press the situation back into “intimacy.”

She opened her arms, voice trembling, trying to pull every camera back into her script.

“All—Allen… you’re alive…” She rushed down the steps, almost throwing herself into me. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me—”

She assumed I didn’t know the truth. She believed, under all these eyes, I’d give her a stage, give her a story of reunion, and let her keep control.

I shifted one step to the side and let her arms catch nothing.

Her hands stopped in midair, fingertips only centimeters from my jacket, and then couldn’t fall any farther.

Her pupils tightened, like she was realizing for the first time that the person in front of her no longer had the habit of obeying.

Whispers spread through the hall. Directors looked at each other. Camera flashes slammed down like rain.

Ryan stood onstage, the hand that had offered the tissue frozen. His face darkened, but he tried to hold himself together, searching for lines that could still save the scene.

After a brief pause, Victoria turned sharply and forced the moment back toward “reasonable.” She gave the audience a strained smile, softening her voice as if calming a room of frightened children.

“Everyone, please don’t panic,” she said. “He… he may be having a post-accident stress reaction. Memory and emotions can become confused. Doctors said this can happen. He needs rest. He needs security.”

Her wording was smart: she didn’t deny I existed, and she didn’t admit that my appearance meant her death announcement was a lie. She tried to turn it into a “medical episode.”

She missed one thing.

I hadn’t come here to help her save face.

I didn’t look at her. I walked straight to the portrait.

Allen in the photo was smiling, like he was attending a stranger’s funeral.

I stood there for two seconds, then turned toward the host.

His throat bobbed. He could only stiffly hand me the microphone.

I took it. My voice carried through the speakers to every corner of the hall—clear, steady, without a tremor that needed explaining.

“Everyone,” I said.

I swept my eyes across the directors’ seats, across the media positions, and finally back to Victoria.

“First, I’m not dead.” I paused long enough for the sentence to land. “Some people will be disappointed.”

The hall erupted. Flashes intensified. Reporters shouted questions over one another.

The host moved to control the room. I lifted a hand, and he stopped.

“Second,” I continued, my tone unchanged, “the engagement is over.”

That one line ripped the support beams out from under Victoria’s stage.

Under the lights, the color drained from her face in seconds—down to her lips.