Chapter 3 - THE DIGITAL VENDETTA: ETHAN’S HARVEST OF SECRETS
“And we haven't even gotten to the fun part yet,” Ethan piped up cheerfully from the barstool, spinning the tablet around so the screen faced Derek and Vanessa.
On the high-resolution display, a crystal-clear video began to play, filmed from a slightly elevated angle that showed the entire kitchen in high-definition color and crisp, directional audio.
Vanessa froze.
Derek stared at the screen in absolute disbelief.
It was the security camera footage from the smart-home hub Derek had installed himself—the one he thought only he had admin access to, complete with cloud storage he believed was entirely secure.
Except Ethan hadn't needed to hack it; he had simply bypassed the firewall years ago when he helped Derek set up the network as a "housewarming gift" back when we were first married and still pretending to be a happy family.
On the screen, Vanessa was clearly visible standing by the kitchen island, holding a pair of small, sharp sewing scissors, carefully slicing a long, jagged vertical tear down the side of the silver designer dress.
Then, the audio kicked in, crisp and undeniable.
“Are you sure she’ll take the blame?” Vanessa’s voice echoed through the kitchen speakers, smug and calculating. “If we pin this on the brat, Derek, she’ll be so terrified she won't dare open her mouth, and Claire will have to grovel to pay for it out of her own savings.”
And then Derek’s voice answered on the recording: “Just do it. The kid’s too soft anyway. If Claire makes a fuss, I’ll threaten to cut them off completely. She has nowhere else to go; her family is just a bunch of blue-collar nobodies who can't even afford a decent car.”
The silence that followed the playback was heavy, absolute, and utterly lethal.
Vanessa’s face turned the color of ash, her carefully applied makeup suddenly looking like war paint on a corpse, while Derek slowly turned his head to look at me, his eyes wide and bloodshot, filled with the terrifying realization of what he had just thrown away.
“Claire...” Derek began, his voice trembling as he reached out a shaking hand. “Claire, I—I was stressed. The company, the market, the pressure... Vanessa put me up to it, she’s the one who suggested—clairement—it was just a joke, a terrible misunderstanding—!”
“Don't you dare,” Vanessa hissed, whipping her head around to glare at Derek with absolute venom. “You coward! You agreed to it! You were the one who wanted her out of the house so we could move in together!”
“Shut up, you stupid b—!” Derek roared, lunging toward Vanessa, his hands curling into fists as the thin veneer of his civilized facade completely shattered under the weight of his collapsing life.
Before Derek could take two steps, Noah was there.
Noah didn't punch him; he simply grabbed Derek by the collar of his expensive designer shirt with one hand, lifted him effortlessly off his feet as if he weighed nothing more than a ragdoll, and slammed him back against the wall with a dull thud that rattled the framed family photos on the shelf above.
“Hands where we can see them, brother-in-law,” Noah said quietly, his face inches from Derek’s terrified eyes. “We don't hit women in this family. And we certainly don't let trash lay hands on each other in front of our sister.”
Derek gasped for air, his feet dangling six inches off the floor, clawing desperately at Noah’s iron-grip wrist while whimpering in sheer terror.
“Put him down, Noah,” Daniel said mildly, adjusting his glasses once more. “We haven't even gotten to the good part of the evening yet. Luke has a few friends waiting outside in unmarked sedans who are terribly interested in a chat about Derek’s international wire transfers to offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.”
Derek went completely limp in Noah’s grip.
“Offshore accounts?” Derek squeaked, the last drop of color vanishing from his face. “How... how do you know about that?”
Luke stepped forward from the doorway, his face expressionless, his trench coat rustling as he pulled a small manila folder from inside his jacket and tossed it onto the kitchen island next to the ripped dress.
“Federal tax evasion, corporate fraud, and unauthorized movement of restricted technology components to embargoed nations,” Luke recited the charges in a flat, monotonous tone that sounded like a death sentence read by a machine. “The Department of Justice’s Economic Crimes Division has been building a case against Apex Innovations for six months. I just happened to drop your name into the primary dossier yesterday morning during a briefing with the Assistant Attorney General.”
Derek let out a high-pitched, pathetic sound, his bladder apparently giving way as a dark stain began to spread across the front of his designer trousers.
“Please,” Derek wept, tears streaming down his face as he looked at me with desperate, pathetic eyes. “Claire... please, you can't do this to me. We’ve been married for ten years! Think of Sophie! She needs her father!”
“Sophie already told me what she thinks of her father,” I said, walking slowly across the kitchen floor, my heels clicking rhythmically against the marble tiles until I stood right in front of him, looking up into his ruined face without a single ounce of pity, anger, or sorrow left in my heart. “She told me that you threatened to send her away, that you called her a liar, and that you let this creature terrorize her in her own home.”
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I reached out, took the ruined silver dress from the counter, and balled it up, pressing it roughly against Derek’s chest.
“You wanted ten thousand dollars for the dress, Derek?” I whispered softly, my voice like ice. “Keep it. Consider it severance pay for the worst mistake of my life.”
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