Chapter 271: Tomorrow Wars

I laughed — a short, ugly sound that bounced off the wood and leather like an assault rifle. "Knew? I counted on it. I counted on you being smart enough to cover your asses but not smart enough to read page thirty-two, subsection C of the agreement you just signed."

Macha went from flushed to blanch to the exact color of a man who’d been told Santa Claus is real and also decapitated your family. When he found the clause he looked like he’d swallowed a live crab.

"Any legal action against any entity related to the Charlotte Thompson matter must be approved by Charlotte Thompson herself," he read, voice unspooling. "With full compliance from all signatory parties."

"Motherfucker, goddamn smart, motherfucker," Professor Manning breathed. Perfect. Economy of language, honestly. Too bad, I am indeed a motherfucker. Refer to Jack in the next two weeks. He’ll tell you more.

I leaned forward so they could actually see the predator behind the pretty-boy face. "You really thought you were playing me, didn’t you? Take half a billion, sign the dotted lines, keep your leverage. Cute fantasy." I knew that perhaps they had idea of what is to happen. Or maybe they did not, but who cares, I was a step ahead.

Harrison tried to laugh. It sounded like milk gone rancid. "We’ve been playing this game since before you were born—"

"And yet here you are," I cut him off, "dancing to my tune like trained monkeys." I let the quote hang, because Gordon Gekko had it half-right: greed is good — but better is being three moves ahead of greedy people who think they’re cunning.

Dr. Whitmore looked at me like some admixture of horror and reluctant approval. "This was all planned? Every step?"

I shrugged, letting my shoulders do the dangerous thing. "I prefer ’aggressive improvisation with contingency planning.’ Sounds sexier and less illegal." I was gonna be easy on them when I knew if I did not do this, they’d throw Charlotte to the wolves if that felt like a better way through.

Charlotte finally spoke. Slow, measured. Deadly. "With those documents, with your public support, and with lawsuits against Rivera, we flip the narrative. The scandal becomes the comeback. Fake news hunts a success story. And you all have five hundred million dollar reasons to make sure that version of events sells."

"You’ll allocate a quarter of the funds to reputation management and legal fees," I said, not suggesting, informing. "Keep the rest as compensation for performing your agreed roles in her little theater production. It’s tax-efficient and morally ambiguous — my favorite combo."

President Morrison stared at me through the screen like I was an animal in a glass case. "We’ve found our match, haven’t we?"

Harrison’s laugh had the texture of a man hearing his own obituary. "Tell me, Mr. Eros — we’ve been walking through your plan step by step from the beginning, haven’t we?"

I straightened, the predator settling back into the pretty-boy posture people underestimated at their peril. Charlotte glanced at me, that small, almost private smile passing between us — not lustful, not joking — the gratitude you get from someone who knows you saved their skin and never pretends the violence was romantic.

"Would you prefer I lie to preserve your ego," I asked, "or admit that you started dancing to my tune the second you heard ’five hundred million’?"

Both presidents looked like they’d swallowed glass — sharp, embarrassing, and probably career-ending.

"Here’s what’s going to happen," I announced, glancing at my Patek Philippe (it cost more than most people’s houses and told everyone in the room that time had already been bought). "You release those documents in exactly three minutes — full authentication, timestamps, the works — before Charlotte’s press conference. Then you stand behind her at the podium like the good little academic puppets you’ve chosen to be."

"This is—" Harrison began.

"The only way you survive with reputations and bank accounts intact," I finished. "Or you can return the money and watch this scandal eat you alive. I’m sure your boards would enjoy that bedtime story: how pride bankrupted a university."

Morrison’s jaw clenched so loud I heard it through the video feed. "You’re a monster."

"I’m a teenager with a god complex and the leverage to back it up," I corrected. "There’s a difference. Monsters don’t wire five hundred million for cooperation."

They all rose, the herd finally obedient. But I wasn’t finished.

"ARIA," I said, low and certain — she was listening in through every device — "send a discreet tip to Ava Voss about her sister’s current location and activities. Include the part about the kidnapped professors’ wives." This will intercept Helena, thank fuck, Ava wasn’t far from us here and intercepting her sister would be easy.

Madison’s eyes went wide. "You’re setting the sisters against each other?"

"Helena has CIA moles, sure," I replied. "But you can’t compromise every cell. Once Ava gets that intel and mobilizes legitimate agents, Helena has to abort. She won’t risk a confrontation with her own sister — not when Ava claims moral high ground and legal authority. Not yet, not now."

"Sibling rivalry," I mused. "Cain and Abel, Kar-Jenner feuds, the Voss sisters — family drama always beats corporate loyalty."

Charlotte looked at me with a new kind of respect. "You’re not just playing chess."

"Please," I scoffed. "This is at least five-dimensional. I’ve got plans for both Voss sisters that would make Pornhub’s stepsibling category look quaint."

Madison elbowed me hard enough to bruise a lesser man. "Focus, horndog."

"I’m always focused," I replied, pulling her closer anyway. "Multitasking is an art. Look it up."

Harrison cleared his throat. "So: we publicly support Charlotte, release the authenticated documents, sue Rivera for defamation, and walk away with more money than some small countries’ GDPs?"

"While I handle the Voss problem via... alternative channels," I confirmed. "Everyone wins. Except Helena, Rivera Next Media, and anyone dumb enough to tangle with us."

I folded my hands on the leather and felt the room inhale. "You will sign the public statement. You will release the records. You will stand with Charlotte and make your support unconditional. And you will do it because that’s what you agreed to when you accepted the money. Not because I told you to. Because you promised."

I straightened, sliding the predator posture back into the pretty-boy frame people misread like amateur art. Charlotte’s gaze met mine — a private exchange that wasn’t about lust so much as mutual cognition: you survive because I did what I do. No roses, no sonnets, just the quiet satisfaction of a saved neck.

"Sign," I said, softer this time. "Then watch the world choke on its attempt to eat us."

Morrison shook his head, still smiling like a man who’d discovered a new way to lose everything gracefully but then with $500m in his accounts. "You know the real irony?" he said. "We came thinking we were taking advantage of a desperate situation. Instead, we got played by a teenager who probably isn’t even old enough to buy a beer."

"Age is a number," I said.

FYI... Manipulation is an art. I’m Michelangelo with a god complex, a studio powered entirely by sexual frustration.

We filed out of the conference room. Charlotte’s phone was already a buzzing war-room—legal teams prepping the counteroffensive, statements being drafted, notarizations pinging like landmines. The three had thought they won by dropping the story early. Instead, they’d detonated every trap I’d set, turned sister on sister, and welded my enemies into allies with the elegant brutality of mutually assured destruction and obscene sums of cash.

The Three Vultures—Charlotte, Harrison, Morrison—had just been recruited. I had plans for them that looked like philanthropy on paper and like a firing squad in practice.

First, though, the Voss sisters needed sorting. Family drama was my favorite genre: CIA operatives turned inconvenient, sibling rivalry turned tactical, and somewhere in there, popcorn-worthy humiliation.

After all — what’s the point of being a teenage god if you can’t make federal agents your unwitting supporting cast while you burn a media empire and make academia your bitch?