The screen lit up. It wasn’t a text message. It was a file upload notification from a cloud server. And below it, a preview of a chat window left open.

My name wasn’t on the screen, but Rafie’s was.

Rafie: Please, Aribba. I’m begging you. Delete them. I’ll sign the prenup. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t send them to the board.

I stopped breathing. The air in the room suddenly felt freezing.

Then, Aribba’s reply, sent an hour ago:
Aribba: You’ll sign everything, darling. And you’ll smile at the wedding. Or everyone—your investors, your religious grandmother, the press—sees these. Just delete everything before the wedding? I don’t think so. Insurance, baby.

And then, the image.