Rhea was moments away from clocking out, her bag slung over one shoulder, when the news alert flashed across her tablet.
BREAKING: Eliza Ning Signs 9-Episode Reality Deal to Expose Lucas Pan
She froze, the headline glaring back at her.
The screen transitioned to a live feed. Eliza Ning, poised and camera-ready, sat across from a talk show host, her expression a blend of vulnerability and resolve.
"I was offered a significant sum to share my story," Eliza began, her voice steady. "But this isn't about money. It's about truth. People deserve to know the real Lucas Pan."
Rhea's grip tightened on her tablet. She knew this wasn't just a personal vendetta—it was a calculated move to dismantle Lucas's carefully curated image.
The elevator doors opened, and Lucas stepped into the penthouse, Julius trailing behind him.
"You saw it?" Rhea asked, holding up the tablet.
Lucas nodded, his expression unreadable. "I did."
Julius interjected, "She's going for the jugular. A full-blown reality series? That's war."
Lucas remained silent for a moment, then turned to Julius. "I want her credibility destroyed. Every skeleton in her closet, every misstep—bring it to light."
Rhea hesitated. "Lucas, are you sure? This could escalate quickly."
He met her gaze, his eyes cold. "She made her move. Now it's our turn."
Julius didn't hesitate. He pulled out his phone, already grinning like he'd been waiting for this all week. "Finally. Something fun."
With a few swipes, he opened a secure channel, the kind reserved for off-the-record fixers and high-level spin doctors. "Give me Mitch, Serena, and the editor at Sway. I want personal favors called in. We're not just burying her—we're rewriting the whole damn story."
Rhea crossed her arms, watching him work. "You know you're playing with fire."
Julius gave her a wolfish smile. "And I brought a flamethrower."
Lucas said nothing more. He turned and walked down the hall, the weight in his steps smooth and silent. Behind the guest room door, he opened the closet and pulled out his workout gear—simple black joggers, a sleeveless training shirt, and his old basketball shoes.
He tied the laces methodically.
There were two things Lucas Pan always did better than anyone: move under pressure, and sweat the rage out.
Tonight, he did both—while the world began to burn.
The gym lights were dimmed low, mirrors reflecting only silhouettes. Lucas pounded through reps on the bench, veins flared, breath sharp, sweat already soaking the collar of his tank. The rhythm kept his fury contained. Barely.
ATHENA's voice hummed in his ear."Press control live. Julius initiated campaign Phase One."
The wall screen flickered. Julius's influence was already bleeding into the media streams.
A podcast segment was trending:"BREAKING: Eliza Ning's new 'truth series' may be riddled with lies. Insiders claim she pitched the show—while still messaging dating Lucas behind the scenes. We have screenshots."
Lucas didn't pause between reps.
ATHENA:"Visual confirmation: year-stamped voice notes. Uploaded to three gossip accounts. Surge in comment traffic—93% negative sentiment toward subject."
Another segment ran beneath the feed—an ex-friend of Eliza's, visibly agitated, speaking into a handheld mic at a club."She cheated on him constantly. I told her not to play him—he was loyal. She said, 'He's boring when he's not famous.' Like, girl, shut up."
Lucas grunted and moved to the free weights. Sweat poured.
ATHENA:"Private tabloid editor has confirmed offer Eliza took: $3.8M upfront. NDA circumvention clause suggests breach. Legal angle unlocked."
Then the video that really made it spin—grainy, intimate, time-stamped footage of Eliza Ning making out with a minor league quarterback outside a hotel two years ago, one week before Lucas flew her to an awards show. The captions were merciless.
He paused, just for a second.
Then slammed the bar back into place and stood, chest heaving.
ATHENA:
"Engagement spike. Julius has instructed influencers to begin 'Green Tea Queen' trend. Hashtag trending at #3. Containment achieved. Target reputation—fractured."
But that was just the beginning.
Live feeds were popping up across socials. Members of Lucas's basketball team—some retired, others still playing—had joined the digital pile-on. Their wives, more brutal than any press agent, were leading the charge.
"She was always fake nice," one of the wives said in a livestream, sipping rosé while flipping through an old phone gallery. "This one? Taken right before she called Lucas 'a convenient stepping stone.' Her words. You can hear it."
Someone else cut in with a clip: Eliza whispering to a sponsor rep, face half-lit, "I'll dump him after the ESPYs. Let's ride this a little longer."
The betrayal was no longer rumor. It was broadcast.
Lucas didn't stop punching the heavy bag.
In the penthouse, Julius had made himself a drink and a throne: perched on the velvet barstool, blazer open, smirk in place, phone angled just right. The lights were low—just cinematic enough.
He tapped "Go Live."
The stream opened on his face, perfectly casual.
"Hey folks, Julius here. If you don't know me, that's fair. I'm the guy Lucas Pan trusted with his life during his lowest seasons. So yeah, I'm his best friend. And I don't usually do press—unless someone drags his name through the dirt for cash."
He gestured over his shoulder.
In the background, Lucas could be seen in soft focus—sweat-drenched in a black tee, walking from the gym, towel draped over his neck, pouring water into a glass. He never looked at the camera.
"I'm not here to bash anyone," Julius continued, "but if you're selling lies about a man who spent seven years trying to love someone who never really saw him? Then you get receipts. From people who were there. From me."
Comments exploded.
Lucas remained in the background—wordless, still, deliberate. The contrast was perfect: the silent storm behind the man with the microphone.
ATHENA pinged softly.
"Live broadcast conversion rate: 2.7 million views in six minutes. Public sympathy swing detected: 83% favorable. Ad revenue spike—charitable donations pouring in. The internet has chosen."
Lucas finished his water. Didn't look at the camera. Just walked out of frame.
Behind him, Julius leaned in a little closer, that grin sharpening with every comment that flew up the side of the stream.
"Y'all are fast," he said, laughing. "And thirsty. Relax—this isn't a tell-all. Just a little correction on the narrative. You want more? Okay. Let me give you a story."
He twirled the glass in his hand like it was a mic. "You know what Lucas did the night Eliza won that bogus influencer award? Flew her mom in from Michigan. First-class. No one even knew. That's the kind of man you're watching walk around in the background."
The chat exploded.
"That's HIM?!""Wait, she cheated on THAT?""Green Tea Queen deserves exile.""Lucas Pan for President."
Julius chuckled. "He's too smart for that. But he's dumb enough to think love should be real. That's why I'm here. Because people like him? They get eaten alive if no one blocks the bite."
Meanwhile, Lucas was back in the private gym, rage contained in motion. Every slam of the medicine ball was a silent exorcism. Every pull-up stretched a wound he wasn't naming.
No cameras. No crowd.
Just sweat, silence, and steel.
ATHENA whispered in his ear."Heart rate stabilizing. Rage venting effective. Emotional profile: controlled volatility. Impressive restraint."
Lucas didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He just kept moving—until his breath evened out, and the ache in his arms felt more honest than the one in his chest.