“You’re really not worried about him?” I asked. “Richard, I mean.”
He blinked, slow and deliberate. “What is there to worry about?”
“Don’t you think he’ll…retaliate?” I twisted the denim over my knee, worrying the fabric between my fingers.
“I hope so.” Luka didn’t look up from the screen. “Desperation makes people sloppy.”
I glanced at the monitors and tried to make sense of the shuffle of windows—one screen stacked with raw code, another with social media pings, and a third cycling through live feeds from BBC, CNN, and the AP. On the far monitor, what looked like the Hallstrom Group’s internal Slack flickered open—some high-level executive channel already in meltdown.
My stomach knotted at the first few lines I could make out:
@all: Is this for real?
Legal: Please do NOT respond to press enquiries. All media queries to Comms.
@partners: Comms preparing a statement.
The legal message was pinned seconds later.
I watched the news stories propagate, multiplying like bacteria. At first, it was speculation—anonymous sources and “unconfirmed reports.” Then one outlet cited another. A third referenced both. Within half an hour, the details hardened into consensus reality. Richard’s photo was plastered everywhere.
Headlines blared across the feeds.
MULTIPLE SEXUAL MISCONDUCT CLAIMS AGAINST HALLSTROM EXECUTIVE SURFACE
PAST HARASSMENT COMPLAINTS AGAINST FINANCE TITAN UNDER SCRUTINY
HALLSTROM SHARES SLIDE AMID MISCONDUCT ALLEGATIONS
On the financial feed, Hallstrom’s ticker flashed red—down six percent in minutes.
“It’s all happening so fast,” I mused, my eyes barely able to keep up with the rapid-fire barrage of information.
Luka shrugged. “Once the first domino falls, the rest is physics.”
“Where did you learn to do all this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely to the tech empire overtaking my kitchen table. “Surely not from your time in the Croatian army.”
Luka chuckled. “No. Not like this. Besides, that was over twenty years ago. Technology has evolved.” He dropped his gaze to his hands, flexing them open and closed again. “And so have I.”
Sensing an opening—a rare crack in the armor—I leaned in. But before I could speak, one of the burner phones buzzed, startling the thought from my mouth.
Luka glanced at the screen, then picked it up.
It buzzed again.
“What is it?”
He smiled.
“Luka, what is it?” I pressed.
“Richard is trying to contact you.”
I reached for my phone in my back pocket, but Luka shook his head.
“I’ve intercepted his calls and texts. He can’t reach you.”
“How?”