Chapter 9 Video Bomb

# Chapter 9: Video Bomb

Lucas's apartment was a stark contrast to the formal opulence of the main penthouse—all sleek minimalism, black leather, and chrome, with abstract art that probably cost more than my grandmother's entire life savings. The space reeked of expensive cologne and stale alcohol, evidence of his party-boy lifestyle scattered across the surfaces: empty crystal tumblers, a forgotten necktie draped over a chair, a small mirror with traces of white powder.

I moved efficiently, scanning for the safe Elliot had mentioned. Not in the obvious places—not behind the art pieces in the living room or in the closet of the master bedroom. I checked my watch: three minutes gone already.

The master bathroom yielded nothing, nor did the home office with its barely-used desk. Where would a narcissistic playboy hide his most prized possessions?

Then it hit me—Lucas wouldn't hide the video. He'd want easy access to it, somewhere private but convenient. Somewhere he could watch it when the mood struck.

I returned to the bedroom, examining the sleek entertainment unit opposite his king-sized bed. The cabinet below the massive television was locked—a simple mechanism that took seconds to pick. Inside, I found what I was looking for: a collection of external hard drives, each labeled with initials and dates.

C.Z. 05/12/17.

My hands trembled as I connected the drive to my phone using a specialized adapter. The files loaded quickly—dozens of videos, all with female initials. My stomach turned. Lucas hadn't just recorded me; he'd been documenting his "conquests" for years.

I found my file and pressed play, needing to confirm its contents before stealing it. The video began and immediately I wished I hadn't looked. The footage showed exactly what I remembered—the bathroom, me struggling as Lucas and his friends held me down, the liquid being poured—but from an angle I hadn't known existed. Someone had been filming deliberately, the camera steady despite the chaos.

But then the video continued past the point of my unconsciousness, showing something I hadn't known: Winton entering the bathroom, assessing the situation with cold calculation rather than shock. "You idiots," his voice came through clearly. "This wasn't the plan."

Lucas's drunken response: "She was going to tell people about the money. Thought she could blackmail me."

Winton's face hardened as he checked my pulse. "She's alive. Get her out the service entrance. I'll handle it from here."

Then, most damning of all, a younger Albert appeared in the doorway. "What the hell happened?" His voice was angry but not surprised—not shocked enough for a father discovering his son had just committed assault.

"Change of plans," Winton replied calmly. "The girl got greedy. Lucas overreacted."

Albert ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Christ, not again. Get her out of here. And make sure she understands the consequences of talking."

Not again.

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The phrase echoed in my mind as I copied the video to my secure drive. Not an isolated incident. Not an unexpected tragedy. A pattern.

I checked my watch—eight minutes gone. I needed to hurry.

As I disconnected the drive, something else caught my eye—a folder labeled "E.A. Evidence." Elliot's initials. I copied it too, not knowing what it contained but sensing its importance.

Replacing everything exactly as I'd found it, I locked the cabinet and did a final scan of the room to ensure I'd left no trace. Ten minutes since I'd entered. Time to return to the party.

The elevator ride back up gave me a moment to compose myself. I'd just discovered that not only Lucas but Albert and Winton were directly involved in my assault—and potentially others. The video provided irrefutable evidence of their callous disregard for the women they hurt. This wasn't just Lucas's crime anymore; it was a family business.

When the doors opened to the main penthouse level, I slipped back through the service entrance, assessing the situation. The party had recovered from my disruption—guests clustered in concerned groups, voices hushed but the overall atmosphere returning to forced gaiety. Albert was nowhere to be seen, likely having retreated to clean himself up.

Elliot sat in a chair near the piano, a doctor checking his pulse while he stared blankly ahead, playing his role perfectly. Our eyes met briefly as I reentered the room, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. Mission accomplished on both our parts.

I made my way toward him, adopting the concerned teacher persona. "Elliot! Are you alright? What happened?"

The doctor—a party guest with medical credentials, apparently—looked up. "Seems like a stress reaction. Has he had episodes like this before?"

"Occasionally," I lied smoothly. "His medication sometimes needs adjustment. I'll stay with him."

The doctor seemed relieved to return to the party, leaving me alone with Elliot. I knelt beside his chair, speaking quietly. "I found it. And more. Your father and Winton were both involved."

His eyes widened slightly, the only indication he'd heard me. He reached for his ever-present notebook and wrote: *Where is Lucas?*

Good question. I scanned the room, locating Lucas by the bar, watching us with narrowed eyes. Had he gone to his apartment? Discovered the intrusion? No—he couldn't have had time.

"Ms. Fontaine."

I turned to find Winton Pierce standing behind me, his expression a mask of professional concern belied by the coldness in his eyes.

"Mr. Pierce."

"I believe Mr. Albert would like a word with you. In his office."

So it had begun. I'd expected as much after my wine-throwing performance.

"Of course," I replied calmly. "Elliot, will you be alright?"

He nodded, eyes communicating a warning I understood perfectly. Be careful.

I followed Winton through the crowd, aware of the whispers and stares trailing in my wake. The guests were undoubtedly speculating about the relationship between the tutor and her employer—had I been fired? Was I a jilted lover? The rumors would be flying by morning.

Albert's office door closed behind us with an ominous click. He stood by the window, changed into a fresh shirt but still radiating fury. Winton positioned himself strategically between us, the mediator in what was sure to be an unpleasant conversation.

"Explain yourself," Albert demanded without preamble.

I adopted an expression of contrite embarrassment. "I'm so sorry, Albert. The wine was an accident—I tripped—"

"Bullshit," he cut me off. "You said something to me. About burning. About marking skin."

I widened my eyes, the picture of confusion. "I don't understand. I apologized immediately. Perhaps you misheard in the confusion?"

Winton stepped forward. "Let's be direct, Ms. Fontaine. Your behavior tonight was deliberate and hostile. Combined with certain... inconsistencies in your background that have recently come to light, we have reason to question your intentions here."

So he had completed his investigation. I needed to control the narrative quickly.

"Inconsistencies?" I repeated, injecting a note of indignation. "What are you implying, Mr. Pierce?"

"Your references," he replied coldly. "The Beaumont family in Paris doesn't exist. At least, not the one you claimed to work for."

I allowed shock to register on my face. "That's impossible. I lived in their home for two years."

"Did you?" His smile was shark-like. "Because when I called the number you provided, I reached a call forwarding service based in Newark."

I sank into a chair, a calculated display of dismay. "I—I don't understand. There must be some mistake."

Albert watched our exchange with growing suspicion. "Who are you really, Claire? If that's even your name."

"Of course it's my name!" I protested, tears welling in my eyes—a trick I'd practiced for months. "I don't know what's happening, but I assure you, my credentials are legitimate."

Winton placed a folder on Albert's desk. "We've compiled some interesting information. Your surgical procedures in Seoul, for instance. Quite extensive for someone with no history of trauma."

My blood ran cold. They'd traced the surgeries. I hadn't anticipated that level of investigation.

"That's—that's private medical information," I stammered, genuine anger seeping into my performance. "How dare you invade my privacy that way?"

"We dare," Albert replied, "because you're living in my home, teaching my son, and apparently harboring some agenda against me. The wine wasn't an accident. The question is: what was it? A bizarre form of protest? Corporate espionage? Blackmail setup?"

I stood abruptly, letting tears spill down my cheeks. "It was an accident that you've twisted into some kind of conspiracy! Yes, I had cosmetic surgery—is that a crime? Many women do! And yes, perhaps my references weren't perfect—I enhanced my resume to get this position because I needed the work."

I turned to leave, but Winton blocked my path. "You're not going anywhere until we get the truth."

"The truth?" I laughed bitterly. "The truth is that I made a terrible mistake coming here. I'll pack my things and be gone within the hour."

"Not so fast," Albert said, his tone softening slightly. My tears were having their intended effect—men like him couldn't resist a damsel in distress. "If you're in some kind of trouble, Claire, perhaps we can help."

This was the opening I needed—the chance to plant seeds of doubt between Albert and Winton.

"The only trouble I'm in," I said shakily, "is being interrogated like a criminal by your lawyer for an accident at a party."

I turned to Winton, allowing anger to replace my tears. "And as for investigating my medical history—that's not just unethical, it's illegal. I wonder what the bar association would think of your methods, Mr. Pierce?"

Winton's expression didn't change, but I saw the calculation in his eyes. I was fighting back in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"Albert," I continued, softening my voice, "I understand your concern. But I assure you, I have no 'agenda.' I came here to teach Elliot, nothing more. If you want me to leave, I will—but please don't let Mr. Pierce's paranoia convince you I'm something I'm not."

The tension in the room shifted perceptibly. Albert looked between us, clearly torn. I'd positioned myself as the victim of Winton's overzealous protection—a narrative that appealed to Albert's ego. He liked the idea of defending me against his attack dog.

"Perhaps we're overreacting," Albert finally said, ignoring Winton's look of disbelief. "The wine incident was unfortunate, but not unforgivable."

"Albert," Winton warned, "at least review the full report before—"

"I said," Albert cut him off firmly, "we may be overreacting." He turned to me. "However, Ms. Fontaine, I would appreciate complete honesty going forward. If there are... embellishments on your resume, now is the time to disclose them."

I nodded contritely. "My qualifications are real, but yes, I... enhanced certain references. I'm deeply sorry."

"And the surgical procedures?" Winton pressed, unwilling to let it go.

I met his gaze steadily. "A car accident three years ago. I preferred not to discuss it, for obvious reasons."

Not a complete lie—there had been an accident, just not the kind involving vehicles.

Albert seemed satisfied with this explanation. "Very well. Consider this matter closed, provided there are no further... incidents."

"Thank you," I said with apparent gratitude. "I should check on Elliot. He was quite upset earlier."

"Of course," Albert agreed, moving to open the door for me—a gesture that clearly signaled to Winton that our meeting was over.

As I passed Albert, I murmured, "I truly am sorry about your shirt."

His hand brushed mine briefly. "Perhaps you can make it up to me."

The suggestion in his voice was unmistakable. Perfect. I had him exactly where I needed him—defending me against Winton, intrigued rather than suspicious.

In the hallway, I allowed myself a small smile of satisfaction. The confrontation had gone better than I could have hoped. I'd successfully driven a wedge between Albert and his lawyer, positioned myself as the wronged party, and maintained my cover despite their investigation.

More importantly, I now possessed the video evidence that would destroy them all. Not just Lucas's assault on me, but proof of Albert and Winton's complicity—their casual reference to previous incidents, their coordinated cover-up.

I found Elliot still sitting by the piano, watching the remaining party guests with detached interest. When he saw me, his eyebrows raised in silent question.

I sat beside him and whispered, "Phase one complete. Tomorrow, we move to phase two."

He nodded slightly, then played a few triumphant chords that only I would recognize as celebration.

The gala continued around us, the elite of New York sipping champagne and trading gossip, unaware that the foundations of the Albert empire had just begun to crack.