Chapter 270: All Legal & Plot The conference room had gone from sterile corporate chic to a war room straight out of Dr. Strangelove. Only instead of nukes, reputations were detonating in real time. Every phone screamed for attention like toddlers trapped in a Walmart toy aisle, and the distinguished academics were flailing about as gracefully as people who’d never faced actual consequences. Dr. Whitmore looked like she was mid-stroke, her Harvard composure snapping faster than Britney Spears circa 2007. Dean Micha had gone from Stanford bronze to corpse grey in thirty seconds flat — impressive metabolic flexibility for a man who probably considers walking to his Tesla cardio. "Eighteen percent!" shrieked someone from the video conference screen. "Quantum Tech is down eighteen fucking percent!" I leaned back in my chair, leather creaking under me, watching Charlotte maintain her ice queen poise while billions of market cap evaporated like credibility at a Trump press briefing. Titanium ovaries, absolutely. Everyone else was losing their shit like they’d discovered their browser history had gone public; she was calm as a bored cat watching a PowerPoint slide show. [Master! Media Proliferation Analysis Complete] [2,847 articles published in the last 22 minutes] [Twitter engagement: 1.7M tweets and climbing] [Estimated financial damage to Quantum Tech: $47 billion] [Recommended action: Let them burn, then offer salvation] ARIA’s assessment hovered in my vision like a HUD designed by someone who actually understood strategy: let your enemies light themselves on fire, then sell them the extinguisher at a premium. Under the table, Madison’s hand found mine. Grip saying: please don’t do anything psychotic. Eyes saying: but if you do, make it unforgettable. Duality of woman, honestly. "This is a disaster!" Professor Manning squeaked like a pubescent boy discovering his first Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. "The academic integrity of both institutions is under siege!" No shit, Sherlock. That was kind of the point. Dr. Kim speed-read her phone like she was cramming for finals — molecular biology replaced by real-time destruction of her career. "Congressional hearings. Bernie Sanders just tweeted about ’academic capitalism corrupting education.’" Of course Bernie did. Man has never met a wealthy person scandal he couldn’t weaponize politically. Respect the hustle. "How did they get this information?" Dean Micha finally rasped, voice strangled like someone was squeezing his balls with institutional force. "Even if they forced... t-t-these records should have been sealed!" I stifled a grin because, well... that’s exactly why we weren’t sealed. Charlotte finally spoke, her voice slicing through panic like a scalpel through butter. "Does it matter how they got it? The question is what we do now." The room went silent. Phones buzzed like a million tiny vultures circling. Every administrator in the room realized the same horrifying truth: they were screwed six ways from Sunday. The only question was whether they’d lose their jobs, their reputations, or both. "We need to issue denials," Dr. Whitmore said, desperation making her sound like she’d just realized she accidentally microwaved her wedding ring. "Complete, categorical denials. Our legal teams—" "Are probably updating their résumés as we speak," I interrupted, voice dripping with the kind of teenage arrogance that makes middle-aged academics want to chew glass. "You really think denials matter when Rivera Next Media is posting dates, amounts, and account numbers like a public ledger?" The Harvard dean gave me the ’maybe-print-more-money-to-end-poverty’ look. "And what would you suggest, Mr...?" "Eros," I said, letting the name hang like expensive cologne at a funeral. "And I suggest you all take a deep breath and remember why we’re here." I moved to the window overlooking Miami, the city sprawled beneath us like human ambition, corruption, and bad architectural choices in hardlight. "Two choices," I said without looking back. "Option one: fight this. Issue denials, hire crisis firms, maybe sue Rivera. Spend millions on lawyers, trash your reputations in prolonged legal theater, and still lose because..." I turned, letting my presence fill the room like a threat wearing a tailored suit. "...the story is true." Several administrators flinched. Suzzie Kimberly looked like she might hurl. Excellent. "Option two," I continued, stalking back toward the table with predatory grace that made everyone lean back instinctively, "you remember those documents you all signed five minutes ago? Five hundred million dollars. Containing... very specific obligations on page seventeen." Dr. Whitmore’s eyes went wide. "You knew this was coming." "I suspected someone might try to cause problems," I said, like Jeff Bezos admitting he might make a little money from online shopping. "Which is why everything was signed, notarized, and sealed before the stories even dropped." Dean Micha frantically scrolled his digital copy, face cycling from grey to green as he landed on page seventeen. "This... this says we’re obligated to provide unconditional support for Charlotte Thompson’s academic reform initiatives." "Including," I added with a slow, deliberate smile, "public statements affirming her commitment to educational excellence and innovation." "You’re asking us to support her while she’s being accused of fraud?" Dr. Kim’s voice pitched higher than a helium Mickey Mouse impression. "I’m not asking," I corrected, my voice dropping into that dangerous register that would’ve made Madison squeeze my hand under the table. "I’m reminding you: you already agreed. The money’s been transferred. Contracts are binding." Charlotte rose, every inch the CEO despite her company currently experiencing the corporate equivalent of the Hindenburg disaster. "Eros is right," she said, voice cold as Miami marble. "You can either be part of the solution, or be crushed by the problem." "This is extortion!" Professor Manning spluttered, looking like a man who just realized he’d signed his soul to the devil, and the devil had a law degree from Harvard. "This is business," I countered, letting my words slice through the room like a katana. "You took the money. You signed the contracts. Now you decide: honor your agreements, ride out this storm with half a billion in cushioning... or breach the contract, return funds you’ve probably already mentally spent, and face this scandal alone." ARIA’s message pinged in my vision: "Master, Helena Voss is making her move. Three black SUVs approaching the St. Regis. ETA ten minutes." Perfect timing. Because this shitshow wasn’t nearly theatrical enough yet. "Also," I said, projecting ARIA’s surveillance feed onto the conference room screen, "we’re about to have company. Helena Voss is nine minutes out, and yes, she brought a former CIA extraction team." The room erupted again — this time panic had a new flavor: not just career death, but literal death. Alice Kirkman, silent since the news dropped, finally spoke: "The woman who led who kidnapping us... is coming here?" "With friends," I confirmed, watching the SUVs thread Miami traffic like apex predators on a mission. "So let me explain why you should be absolutely fucking terrified." I let my presence expand, Dark Lord energy making the room temperature drop perceptibly."Helena Voss isn’t some corporate villain you can negotiate with. She’s a woman who kidnaps professors’ wives, tortures them for leverage, and has killed more people than COVID killed careers. You think she’s coming for a strongly-worded letter?" Dr. Whitmore went from pale to transparent. "She wouldn’t dare—" "Oh, she would. And she will," I cut her off. "Right now, she needs witnesses who can testify that this meeting was about covering up fraud. One properly motivated person — maybe a little electrical incentive — would sing whatever tune she wants. And trust me: after what I did to her operations, she’s not in a forgiving mood." "But wait," President Harrison from Harvard suddenly spoke up via video, confusion rippling across his face. "We have documentation that could—" "Oh, you mean the insurance policy you prepared seven years ago when Charlotte enrolled?" I interrupted, smile sharp enough to perform surgery. "Complete records: transcripts, admission essays, test scores, faculty recommendations — all legitimate, all properly filed, proving Charlotte earned her degrees on merit." Everyone stared at me like I’d just announced I was Batman. "How did you—" Morrison started. "Know about your little safety net?" I finished. "Please. You think I’d run this whole show without knowing every card in the deck? Someone with Charlotte’s last name and bank account enrolling? Of course you prepare for this exact scenario." After all, this wasn’t the first time they’d made such deal with the Thompsons. Harrison’s face went from confident to constipated in record time. "You have irrefutable proof that every credit was earned, every grade justified, every degree legitimate," I continued, pacing like a professor lecturing particularly slow students. "Documents that could obliterate Rivera Next Media’s credibility, make them look like amateurs, and probably bankrupt them in the ensuing lawsuit." Morrison’s mouth opened and closed like a fish discovering air wasn’t water. "You... knew we had these?"