Strike Back Of The Secret Billionaire

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The video playing on Brent's laptop showed Sarah's best friend, Madison Taylor, holding court at Le Bernardin just six months ago.

The restaurant's soft lighting couldn't hide the cruel glint in her eyes as she gestured with her champagne glass.

"I mean, can you believe she even lets him eat at her table?" Madison's voice dripped with disdain. "It's like giving scraps to a stray dog. And have you seen those pathetic puppy-dog eyes he makes when Sarah talks to him? As if someone like her would ever actually care about someone like him."

The other socialites tittered, their jewelry catching the light as they leaned in closer. None of them noticed the waiter carefully angling his phone to capture their conversation. Brent had made sure to tip him well for that footage.

Now, sitting in his office, Brent watched Madison's latest I*******m story. Gone were the designer clothes and champagne brunches.

Her new reality was Target loungewear and desperate attempts to hawk vitamin supplements to her dwindling followers. Her latest post had barely broken a hundred likes – a far cry from her usual fifty thousand.

"Karma works faster when you help it along," Brent murmured, closing the video. He'd made sure every luxury brand in New York knew about Madison's hidden counterfeit business. Amazing how quickly "fashion influencers" fell when they couldn't get into Fashion Week.

His intercom buzzed. "Sir? Madison Taylor is here. Without an appointment."

"Send her up." Brent straightened his Brioni tie – the same brand Madison had once mocked him for wearing, claiming his must be fake because "people like him" couldn't afford the real thing.

Madison looked different without her usual glam squad. Her roots were showing, her nails were chipped, and her "vintage" Chanel bag was definitely one of her fakes.

The confidence that had once radiated from her like expensive perfume had faded to desperate panic.

"Brent, please." She tried for her old commanding tone, but it shook. "This has gone too far. I've lost all my sponsorships. My followers. My—"

"Your credibility?" He finished for her. "Funny how that happens when people learn you've been selling knockoffs as authentic and charging 'styling fees' for borrowed clothes you never returned."

"That's not... I mean, everyone does it—"

"No, Madison. Everyone doesn't." He pulled up another video. This one showed her at Sarah's birthday party, filming him as he carried heavy boxes up stairs because Sarah had "forgotten" to book elevator access.

"Look at him struggle!" Madison's laugh echoed through the speakers. "Sarah, you're so bad, making him do that in his cheap suit. Oh my God, is he sweating? Gross!"

"I had three broken ribs that day," Brent said quietly. "From a car accident the week before. Sarah knew. You knew. Everyone knew. But you all thought it was hilarious to watch me suffer."

Madison's carefully maintained facade cracked. "I'm sorry! Okay? I'm sorry! What else do you want?"

"Want?" Brent smiled. "I want you to leave this office and think about every person you've stepped on to maintain your social status. Because by the time I'm done, they'll all know exactly who you really are."

He pulled up another document on his screen. "Like Lily, the intern you got fired because she wouldn't give you free clothes from her family's boutique. Or David, the photographer whose career you ruined because he wouldn't delete that unflattering photo of Sarah. Or maybe we should talk about the 'charity galas' where you pocketed the donations?"

Madison's face went pale. "How did you—"

"I learned from the best. Sarah taught me to keep records of everything. To gather evidence. To wait for the perfect moment." He leaned forward. "You helped her destroy people's lives for fun. Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences?"

As security led her out, he could hear her sobbing. Just like she'd sobbed with laughter watching him struggle that day.

His phone buzzed. A text from his investigator: "Found the proof. Madison was the one who started the rumor about Sarah's last assistant's 'mental breakdown.' Have emails showing she deliberately planted fake stories about the girl having drug problems. The assistant ended up in therapy and had to move to another state."

Perfect. He had a journalist friend who'd love that story. The same journalist Madison had tried to blacklist for writing about her fake follower scandal.

James appeared with fresh coffee. "Sir? Madison's already trending on T*****r. Someone leaked her old texts about scamming charity events."

"Someone?" Brent raised an eyebrow.

"Well, someone who might work in this office and might have access to her old phone records." James smiled. "The fashion blogs are having a field day. Apparently, she's been running her counterfeit scheme for years."

"Make sure those stories reach her remaining sponsors," Brent said. "And send an anonymous tip to the FBI's counterfeit goods division. I hear they're very interested in fake luxury items these days."

He turned back to his window, watching Madison's tear-streaked face as she stumbled to her car – not the Ferrari she usually drove, but a beaten-up Honda she'd borrowed from her cousin.

"You know what the funny thing is, James?" Brent mused. "She could have been decent. She could have shown basic human kindness. Instead, she chose to be cruel because she thought it made her special."

"And now?"

"Now she's learning what Sarah's learning: when you treat people like they're beneath you, don't be surprised when they rise above you."

His phone buzzed again. Madison was already calling from a new number, probably hoping to beg for mercy.

Delete!

After all, what goes around, comes around. And Madison's turn had finally arrived.