THE HIDDEN HEIR'S VENGEANCE

CHAPTER 22 : Press This Button

“Three days from now, Mr. Holt,” Matthew said, his voice weighted as he fought the pain crushing his skull. “A rebel faction backed by foreign mercenaries will seize control of North Kivu. They will nationalize your mine. Your asset will be worth zero overnight.”

“Bullshit!” Holt shouted. “That region is guarded by UN peacekeepers! I have people on the ground. The reports are clean!”

“Your reports are slow. My data is absolute,” Matthew replied, pulling a phone from his suit pocket. Somehow, it pierced the room’s signal jammer through ARC system modifications. He placed the phone at the center of the table.

“Look,” Matthew said, turning the screen toward Reginald Holt.

On the display was a breaking news alert from a private defense intelligence blog, freshly published.

“ALERT: Rebel troop movements detected near Kivu border. U.S. Embassy issues evacuation warning.”

Holt’s face drained of color. His hand trembled as he held his cigar. “This… this is just a rumor,” Holt stammered. “The market hasn’t reacted.”

“Not yet,” Matthew answered calmly, “but I can make it react right now.”

Matthew raised his finger above the phone’s screen. “If I press this button, I will open a one billion dollar short position against your mining holding company. Market algorithms will see my bet, read that headline, and trigger mass panic. Your stock will collapse before the morning bell.”

Slowly, Matthew’s finger hovered a single centimeter above the screen. The tension in the room was so thick the air itself felt solid. Holt stared at Matthew’s finger as if it were a nuclear launch switch.

Cold sweat ran down the old man’s temples. The pistol in his hand was forgotten. The man sitting across from him was not bluffing. He was holding Holt’s fate in his grasp.

“Don’t,” Holt whispered hoarsely. His ego and arrogance collapsed under the weight of pure financial terror.

“Give me one reason,” Matthew challenged.

“I… I will withdraw all attacks on Lane Corp,” Holt blurted out. “I’ll sell the shares I bought at a discount back to you. I’ll step away.”

“Not enough,” Matthew said coldly.

“What else do you want?!” Holt shouted in desperation.

“Information,” Matthew replied, lowering his hand but keeping the phone active. “You mentioned bigger sharks. Who are they? What do you know about Julian Vance?”

Holt’s eyes widened. The fear on his face changed shape. If moments ago he feared ruin, now he feared death.

“Vance…” Holt swallowed, glancing left and right as if the walls themselves could hear. “You… you’re his nephew, aren’t you? The one who was exiled?”

“Answer me,” Matthew cut in.

“He’s an Archon,” Holt whispered, his voice barely audible. “They aren’t businessmen, Thomas. They’re controllers. They decide who becomes president, which countries go to war, and which currencies collapse. I… I’m just a small pawn paying tribute so I’m allowed to play in this sandbox.” Holt looked at Matthew with a new expression, a mix of pity and horror.

“If Julian is targeting you… you’re already dead, son. Money won’t save you from the Consortium.”

“That will be my problem,” Matthew replied, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the blood beneath his nose. “One more thing. Starting today, you work for me.”

“What?!” Holt gaped.

“Not as a subordinate, but as ears,” Matthew explained.

He stood, straightened his suit, and said, “If Archon moves in the real estate sector, or if any threat approaches Lane Corp, you will be the first to inform me. If you fail… this short button will be pressed.” Matthew slid the phone back into his pocket.

“And you’re mine? Sell now, before that news reaches CNN. Consider it a parting gift from me.”

Holt slumped into the sofa, looking ten years older than when Matthew had entered. With trembling hands, he poured himself a glass of whiskey and drained it in one gulp.

“You’re a devil, Thomas,” Holt muttered.

“I’m the architect, Mr. Holt,” Matthew corrected, turning toward the door. “And I just saved your life.”

Matthew strode out of the room without looking back. The guards outside stared at him in confusion, stunned that their boss had not ordered an execution but sat in silence and defeat.

When the elevator doors closed and carried him back to the surface, Matthew’s legs gave out. He had to brace himself against the elevator wall to keep from collapsing. His retinas flared blue again as a holographic panel floated before his eyes.

[DIPLOMATIC MISSION COMPLETE]

[Result: Total Dominance.]

[New Asset: Reginald Holt, Coerced Informant, Fear-Bound Ally.]

[New Skill Unlocked: “Market Signal Key”] (Manipulation of public sentiment and market trends through data injection).

[Health Penalty: Vitality reduced to 20%. Microvascular damage to nasal and cerebral vessels. Immediate recovery required.]

“Damn it,” Matthew muttered, pressing his throbbing temples. “I need a doctor… or a week of sleep.”

[Financial Assets: Lane Corp stabilized. Access to Holt Industries intelligence.

[Enemies: Reginald Holt (neutralized into asset), Julian Vance (primary threat).]

The elevator doors opened onto an empty lobby. Outside, his damaged Bentley had already been replaced by an armored limousine sent by Hector.

The new driver, Luke Parker, a hard-faced recruit of Hector’s, opened the door for him. “Where to, sir?”

“Home,” Matthew said weakly as he slid inside the darkened vehicle. “And make sure we’re not being followed.”

As the car cut through the New York night, Matthew stared out the window. He had won the battle against Holt, but the information he gained was far heavier. Julian Vance. His uncle. The Archon.

The real enemy was no longer outside the gates. He was already inside the walls, and this financial cold war had just entered a far more lethal phase.

***

The flashbulbs of the paparazzi exploded like an artificial thunderstorm at the entrance of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Tonight was the Gilded Gala, the most prestigious charity event on New York’s social calendar, where a single ticket cost as much as a studio apartment in Brooklyn and the guest list was curated more tightly than Fort Knox.

Inside the Rolls-Royce Phantom gliding slowly toward the red carpet, Matthew Thomas closed his eyes for a brief moment. His head still felt light, lingering nerve damage from his confrontation with Reginald Holt and the market manipulation twenty-four hours earlier.

A warning from the ARC system drifted behind his eyelids.

[SYSTEM WARNING]

[Physical Condition: 22% (Critical Stable)]

[Recommendation: Avoid heavy cognitive stress. “Social Charisma” mode activated to mask facial pallor and micro tremors in hands.]

[Cost: 5 Vitality Points per hour.]

“Are you sure you can do this?” Viviane asked, her voice filled with concern. Her delicate hand tightened around Matthew’s cold fingers.

Matthew opened his eyes and turned to his wife. Tonight, Viviane looked breathtaking. She wore a deep emerald silk gown by Elie Saab with a plunging neckline that hugged her figure perfectly, complemented by a dazzling diamond necklace from Cartier resting against her graceful neck. She was no longer the hesitant daughter of Lane Corp. She was a queen.

“The world needs to see us, Vie,” Matthew replied calmly, though his voice was rough as he adjusted his black bow tie. “They’ve heard the rumors about Davies’ fall and Holt’s surrender. Now they need to see the winners.”

“They’ll see you as a monster, Matt,” Viviane whispered, awed.

“Let them see a monster.” Matthew gave a faint smile, one that never reached his eyes but was enough to fool the cameras. “As long as that monster stands beside you.”

Moments later, the car door was opened by a valet in a black and white uniform. The instant Matthew’s shoes touched the red carpet, the world erupted in shouts.

“Mr. Thomas! Mr. Thomas! Look this way!”

“Mrs. Lane! Is it true Lane Corp has acquired Davies’ assets?”

“Matthew! What’s the secret behind your stock’s explosive surge?”

Every reporter present shouted at once, competing for the couple’s attention.

Matthew did not answer. He slipped his arm around Viviane’s waist, supporting his own body while also sending a clear, dominant signal of possession.

They moved down the line of photographers with measured steps. Matthew did not lower his gaze. His eyes met the camera lenses head-on, sharp and unflinching, as if daring anyone behind them to try to bring him down.

At the end of the red carpet stood a figure he knew all too well. Carol Lane.