Chapter 6 - The Traitor in the Atelier
At six o'clock on Friday morning, the sky over Chicago was a pale, icy blue.
In the private intelligence suite on the forty-seventh floor of the Moretti Tower, Marcus Hale sat before a bank of high-resolution monitors, typing rapidly on a mechanical keyboard. Behind him, Adrien stood holding a porcelain cup of black coffee, his jaw set in a hard line.
"I found the leak, Boss," Marcus said, tapping a key to display a series of encrypted text logs on the main screen.
Adrien leaned in, his eyes scanning the data. "Who?"
"It wasn't your personal accounting team," Marcus explained, pointing to a series of wire transfers routed through an offshore bank in the Cayman Islands. "It was Chloe Vance—the senior assistant to Madame Laurent in Paris. She was receiving fifteen thousand dollars a month to photograph your custom order files, including the specific measurement notes you provided, and forward them to a private email address."
"Whose email address?" Adrien asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Marcus clicked another tab. "The account belongs to Julianna Mercer."
Adrien’s eyes narrowed. Julianna Mercer was forty-five, the wife of Harrison Mercer—the Chief Executive Officer of Mercer Global Logistics, the largest shipping partner operating out of the Port of Chicago. Julianna was also the undisputed leader of the Gold Coast social elite, the woman who controlled the guest lists for every major charity gala in the state.
"Julianna ran the group chat," Marcus continued, pulling up a series of archived messages from the private messaging platform. "There are forty-two members in the group, including Vanessa Whitmore, three city council members' wives, and the lead fashion reporter for the Chicago Tribune."
Marcus hesitated before tapping the final folder. "Do you want to see the messages, sir?"
Adrien stared at the screen.
Displayed across the monitor were hundreds of messages. Side-by-side comparisons of runway models next to crude, photoshopped images of Emily. Horrible, cruel captions mocking her background, her hips, her bust, her choice of shoes. One message from Julianna Mercer read: “Adrien is trying to turn a draft horse into a thoroughbred. Look at these waist measurements—it’s an insult to haute couture.”
Adrien slowly set his coffee cup down on the desk. The fine porcelain cracked against the hard surface, a dark line running down the side.
"Marcus," Adrien said softly.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Call Harrison Mercer," Adrien instructed, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, gravelly register. "Tell him that as of six o'clock this morning, the Moretti Syndicate has terminated all shipping contracts with Mercer Global Logistics."
Marcus paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. "Boss... that's forty percent of Mercer's annual revenue. Harrison will go into immediate debt default."
"I know," Adrien said flatly. "Tell him that if he wants to understand why his family company is going into bankruptcy, he should ask his wife to show him her phone."
"Understood, sir."
"And what about the fashion reporter from the Tribune?" Marcus asked.
"Buy the paper," Adrien said without missing a beat. "Buy the majority share in the media group by noon today. Fire her by one o'clock, and make sure she never works in publishing on the East Coast again."
Adrien turned around, walking toward the grand floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the misty lakefront.
"And Marcus?"
"Sir?"
"Send a private security team to Paris," Adrien said coldly. "Have Madame Laurent fire Chloe Vance immediately, and file federal industrial espionage charges against her. I want that girl in a French courtroom by next month."
Marcus nodded grimly, typing out the commands. "And the rest of the women in the group chat?"
May you like
Adrien looked out at the sunrise breaking over the water, his reflection in the glass dark and unforgiving.
"The rest of them will receive their punishment next Friday at the gala," Adrien said quietly. "I want front-row seats reserved for every single one of them."
