THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

CHAPTER 20 : The Monster

The Next Day

The massive screen in Lane Corp’s main boardroom flickered to life, displaying a face every East Coast real estate power player knew all too well. The features were hard, a square jaw and eyes as cold as ice. Reginald Holt, the Iron-Handed Baron.

He sat in a CNBC studio, speaking with the calm of an executioner sharpening his blade.

“Lane Corp has lost its way,” Holt’s voice echoed through the crowded room, where panicked board members sat stiffly. 

“Their ambitious port project is financial suicide. As a concerned minority shareholder, Holt Industries is formally submitting a tender offer today to acquire fifty-one percent of Lane Corp shares at forty-five dollars per share. That is a twenty percent premium above market. I am offering a lifeboat before this ship sinks.”

Chaos erupted instantly. The boardroom filled with overlapping voices as panic spread.

“We have to sell!” Robert Watson shouted. The former CEO, still sitting on the board, was red-faced with stress. “Forty-five dollars is a good price. If we refuse, the stock will collapse the moment the market realizes how thin our liquidity is.”

“He’s right!” another director chimed in. “Matthew Thomas dragged us into a war with Davies, and now this port project might never turn a profit. We’re exposed.”

Viviane Lane stood at the head of the table, both hands pressed against the polished mahogany. Her face was pale. The attack had come at the worst possible time, just as their cash reserves had been drained to mobilize port materials the day before.

“We are not selling my father’s legacy to a land-grabbing bastard like Holt,” Viviane said firmly, her voice trembling but strong. “He wants to carve us up, dump our logistics division, and keep only the property assets.”

“Mrs. Lane, we have to be realistic,” Watson cut in harshly. “Your husband may be a genius, but he’s not a magician. We don’t have the cash to fight a hostile takeover. If Holt buys up the public float, we’re finished.”

The boardroom doors suddenly swung open. Silence fell like a dropped curtain.

Matthew Thomas walked in with an unhurried stride, his gaze sweeping over the anxious faces around the table.

He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looked exhausted, with faint dark circles under his eyes. But his stare was as sharp as a scalpel. He had survived a deadly chase only hours earlier, and now he was facing corporate execution.

“Who said we don’t have money?” Matthew asked flatly as he walked past Watson without a glance, headed straight for the chair beside Viviane, and dropped into it.

“Matthew,” Viviane whispered, relief flooding her voice, quickly followed by worry as she took in his condition. “Holt is attacking openly. He’s using the media to scare retail shareholders into selling to him.”

“I know,” Matthew replied calmly, pulling his tablet from his briefcase and linking it to the room’s central system.

The screen that had shown Holt’s smug face switched to real-time market data. Lane Corp stock was plunging, a steep red line. Massive sell-offs flooded the volume chart.

“Look at that,” Watson said, pointing with a shaking finger. “The market is panicking. We have to accept Holt’s offer before it drops below thirty.”

Matthew fixed him with a look that made the old man shrink. “Sit down, Robert. Or leave,” Matthew said coldly. “No one sells a single share today.”

“What’s your plan?” Viviane asked. “We need at least two billion dollars to withstand this. Vincent Chen’s funds are locked into the construction contracts.”

Matthew closed his eyes briefly. His head throbbed, the aftershocks of using ARC to override the city still lingering, but he had no choice.

[SYSTEM ARC ACTIVATED]

[Target: LCRP Market Defense]

[Mode: High-Frequency Trading Counter-Attack]

[Analysis: Reginald Holt is using short-term leveraged funds for this assault. Weakness detected. If Lane Corp stock holds above fifty-five dollars for four hours, Holt will default on his credit lines.

[Operational Cost: 30 Vitality Points. Warning: High Risk.]

Warm blood trickled from Matthew’s nose again. He wiped it quickly with a handkerchief before anyone noticed, except Viviane, whose eyes widened in alarm.

“Matthew, you’re…” she whispered.

“I’m fine,” he cut in, eyes locked on the screen. “ARC, initiate Ghost Liquidity Protocol,” he muttered softly.

His fingers flew across the tablet at an inhuman speed.

“Viviane, authorize use of Vincent Chen’s emergency funds. Not the construction capital. The personal escrow he transferred this morning as a sign of alliance,” Matthew ordered.

“That’s collateral,” Viviane said. “If we use it and lose…”

“We won’t lose. Do it,” Matthew snapped.

Viviane swallowed, then entered the authorization codes. “Authorization granted. Five hundred million dollars available.”

“Enough for the first round,” Matthew murmured.

On the screen, Lane Corp’s plunging stock suddenly stopped falling.

Matthew hit Enter. Instantly, massive buy orders flooded the market. Not one giant order, but thousands of micro-orders executed in rapid succession, forming an impenetrable buy wall.

Across town at Holt Industries, Reginald Holt lounged in his leather chair, Cuban cigar in hand, watching his Bloomberg terminal. He smiled as he observed the chaos engulfing Lane Corp.

“Good,” Holt muttered. “Any minute now they’ll be begging me to take it off their hands.”

“Mr. Holt!” his head trader shouted from across the room, staring at three monitors. “There’s… something strange happening.”

“What do you mean, strange?” Holt frowned.

“Someone is buying back Lane Corp stock. The volume is insane.”

“Desperate buyback attempt,” Holt scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “They’ll be out of cash in ten minutes. Hit them harder. Dump five hundred thousand shares from our reserve.”

“Yes sir… wait…” The trader froze. “Sir, every time we dump shares, they disappear.”

“What?” Holt barked.

“Someone is absorbing everything instantly. Look at the order book.”

Holt stood and marched to the monitors. His eyes widened. Every sell order was swallowed the moment it appeared. The price stopped falling and began to climb.

Forty-five fifty… forty-six… forty-seven twenty.

“Who has that kind of liquidity?” Holt snarled. “Lane Corp should be bankrupt. Who’s backing them? Which bank?”

“There’s no bank trail,” the trader said. “The funds are coming from offshore accounts and shell entities. The algorithm is too fast. This is institutional-grade high-frequency trading.”

Cold sweat broke across Holt’s brow. He had borrowed heavily for this blitz. If the stock price rose, his acquisition costs would explode and his collateral margins would collapse.

“Raise the offer,” Holt shouted. “Fifty dollars per share.”

Back at Lane Corp, panic had given way to stunned silence. All eyes were on Matthew, sitting calmly as his fingers danced across the tablet like a concert pianist.

“He raised the offer to fifty,” Viviane reported.

“He’s sweating,” Matthew said quietly. His breathing grew heavier, the edges of his vision blurring. Pain hammered his skull like a sledgehammer.

[Warning: Neural Load at 85%. Risk of Loss of Consciousness.]

“Hold on,” Matthew muttered to himself. “Just a little more.”

He adjusted ARC’s algorithm. Not just buying now, but spoofing, placing fake sell orders to bait Holt’s systems, canceling them in nanoseconds, then buying lower.

“Robert,” Matthew said without looking up. “Still want to sell?”

Robert Watson stared at the screen, mouth agape. The stock hit fifty-two dollars. His personal net worth had just jumped fifteen percent in ten minutes.

“N… no. Keep going, son. Keep going,” he said eagerly.

“Good,” Matthew replied. “Now the finishing blow.”

Using Vincent Chen’s data access, Matthew unleashed the ultimate bluff. ARC projected the illusion of a massive Asian institutional investor preparing a two-billion-dollar entry. It was pure digital theater, god-tier deception.

On global trading dashboards, a new indicator flashed: Institutional Buy Interest: HIGH (Asian Conglomerate)

The market went wild. Retail traders and algorithmic bots piled in, terrified of missing out. The price surged vertically.

Fifty-three… fifty-five… fifty-eight… sixty.

At Holt Industries, Reginald Holt snapped.

“Stop it. Stop everything,” Holt roared, hurling his whiskey glass against the wall. “We’re exposed. Our short positions are destroyed. We’re down one hundred fifty million in twenty minutes.”

“Pull the offer. Cancel the takeover now,” Holt ordered, breathing hard, staring at the screen with raw hatred.

“Who are you, Thomas?” he hissed. “You’re not just some lucky in-law. You’re a monster.”

Holt straightened his rumpled suit, trying to regain composure, though his hands trembled. He had thought he was devouring a lamb. Instead, he had awakened a dragon.