Chapter 5 The CEO's Livestream Confession

# Chapter 5: The CEO's Livestream Confession

Three days after my failed escape attempt, life in the Allen mansion had settled into an unsettling routine. By day, Darren maintained his vegetative facade, attended by nurses and specialists who either believed the charade or were paid handsomely to pretend they did. By night, he would visit my room—sometimes to simply watch me, sometimes to speak in that soft, controlled voice that sent shivers down my spine.

I had become a prisoner in a gilded cage, my every move monitored, my communications with the outside world undoubtedly screened. Even my calls with Jacob felt performative, as if Darren were listening to every word.

"Mrs. Allen?" A maid's voice pulled me from my thoughts. "Mr. Peters asked me to inform you that your presence is requested in the media room at eleven o'clock."

I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes from now.

"Did he say why?"

"Something about Allen Industries' IPO livestream, ma'am. Your husband's company is going public today."

Of course. The initial public offering—the event that had been meticulously planned for months, according to financial news I'd been reading. Darren's crowning achievement, orchestrated while he supposedly lay helpless in a medical bed.

At precisely eleven, I entered the media room to find Peters and several executives gathered around a massive screen. Darren sat in his wheelchair in the center of the room, playing his part flawlessly.

"Ah, Mrs. Allen," Peters greeted me with professional courtesy. "Please, join your husband. The stream begins in five minutes."

I took my assigned place beside Darren's wheelchair, acutely aware of his presence even though he maintained his blank stare.

"What exactly am I supposed to do here?" I asked Peters quietly.

"Simply be present. Support your husband. The cameras may pan to you occasionally when they show the private viewing room."

The screen flickered to life, showing the main stage at Allen Industries headquarters where the company's acting CEO—Darren's appointed proxy—was preparing to address investors and media.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the CEO began after a brief introduction, "today marks a historic moment for Allen Industries as we take our company public after sixty years as a private enterprise."

I tuned out the corporate speak, focusing instead on maintaining an appropriate expression of supportive wifehood while my mind raced through potential escape scenarios. Each seemed more impossible than the last.

Thirty minutes into the presentation, just as stock pricing was being announced, something unexpected happened.

The CEO paused, pressing his earpiece. "I'm being told that we have a special message from Darren Allen himself."

A murmur went through both the audience onscreen and the executives in our room. Peters looked sharply at Darren, who remained impassive in his wheelchair.

"This isn't in the program," Peters said tensely to no one in particular.

The screen split, and suddenly Darren's pre-recorded face appeared. Not the vacant expression of his supposed condition, but alert, commanding—the real Darren I'd come to know.

"Good morning," recorded Darren said smoothly. "I regret that I cannot be present in person for this momentous occasion."

The executives exchanged confused glances. This deviation from script clearly hadn't been approved.

"Allen Industries has been my family's legacy for three generations," the recording continued. "Today, as we open our company to public investment, I want to speak briefly about value. True value."

He paused, and I felt a creeping sense of dread.

"Many of you know that last year I suffered a traumatic injury that significantly impacted my ability to lead this company in a traditional sense. What you may not know is that during my recovery, I gained a new perspective on what truly matters."

The Darren beside me remained perfectly still, but I could sense tension radiating from him. Whatever was happening had not been planned—at least not by him.

"Today, I'd like to make an announcement that reflects this new perspective."

The screen behind recorded Darren changed, and my heart stopped. There, displayed for thousands of investors, media outlets, and financial analysts, was a sleeping image of me.

I gasped audibly. The photo had been taken without my knowledge, showing me peaceful in slumber, my hair spread across a pillow, early morning light casting a glow on my skin.

"This is my wife, Vanessa," recorded Darren continued, his voice taking on a quality I'd never heard before—something almost resembling genuine emotion. "We married shortly after my accident, and she has shown me what true investment looks like. Investment in a person. In their potential. In their future."

I felt the blood drain from my face as the executives turned to stare at me.

"Therefore, effective immediately, I am transferring all my personal shares in Allen Industries—fifty-one percent of the company—to my wife, Vanessa Allen."

Chaos erupted in the media room. Peters was shouting into his phone. Executives were on their feet, protesting. But I couldn't tear my eyes from the screen.

"Additionally," recorded Darren continued over the uproar, "I am establishing the Vanessa Allen Design Foundation with an initial endowment of five hundred million dollars, to support emerging designers and sustainable fashion initiatives."

The room around me spun. This couldn't be happening. It had to be another manipulation, another game.

"In closing," the recording said, "I want to address my wife directly." His digital eyes seemed to find mine through the screen. "Vanessa, all I have is yours now. Including me. Perhaps now you'll understand the value of what we've built together."

The screen went black momentarily before returning to the main stage, where the acting CEO stood frozen in shock, clearly unprepared for this development.

In the stunned silence that followed, I turned to Darren. His eyes were open now, fixed on me, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What have you done?" I whispered.

Before he could respond—if he even planned to—Peters rushed over.

"We need to issue a statement immediately," he hissed. "This unauthorized announcement will throw the markets into chaos."

"Unauthorized?" I echoed, looking between Peters and Darren.

"Mr. Allen's medical proxy authorization doesn't extend to major shareholding changes," Peters explained tersely. "This recording must have been made... before."

But I knew better. The recording had been recent. Darren had orchestrated this entire spectacle—but why? To bind me to him financially as well as legally? To make escape even more impossible?

My phone exploded with notifications—journalists, fashion industry contacts, even old classmates, all reacting to the bombshell announcement. The financial news ticker at the bottom of the screen showed Allen Industries stock fluctuating wildly as markets tried to process what had happened.

"Mrs. Allen," one of the executives approached me cautiously, "given these... developments, we should discuss your role in the company moving forward."

I stared at him blankly. "My role?"

"You now control the majority stake in a fifty-billion-dollar corporation," he said, as if explaining to a child.

The reality crashed over me like a wave. Darren hadn't just given me money—he'd given me power. Power over his family's legacy. Power that could, theoretically, be used against him.

Unless that was exactly what he wanted.

The next few hours passed in a blur of emergency meetings, legal consultations, and frantic damage control. Throughout it all, Darren maintained his vegetative performance, leaving me to face the hurricane alone.

By evening, I was exhausted, my mind spinning with terms like "fiduciary duty" and "shareholder responsibility." I retreated to my room, only to find Darren waiting for me—standing by the window, silhouetted against the sunset.

"Enjoy your first day as a CEO?" he asked without turning.

"Why?" I demanded, closing the door behind me. "Why would you do this?"

"Because you needed to understand." He turned to face me, his expression unreadable in the dimming light.

"Understand what? That you're insane? That was already clear."

"That you can't leave." He stepped closer. "Not anymore. You're too integral to Allen Industries now. Thousands of jobs depend on you. The market depends on you. Your disappearance or—" his voice hardened slightly, "—divorce would trigger a catastrophic devaluation."

I sank onto the edge of the bed as realization dawned. "You've trapped me more effectively than any locked door."

"I've elevated you," he corrected. "Given you what you deserve."

"I never asked for this!"

"You never had to ask." He moved to sit beside me, close enough that I could feel his warmth but not quite touching. "I've known what you needed before you did. Always."

A chill ran through me at the reminder of his years of surveillance.

"The foundation," I said after a moment. "Was that real?"

"Very real. Five hundred million dollars to reshape the fashion industry according to your vision." His voice softened. "Your designs deserved more than basement showcases and indifferent critics."

The worst part was, the foundation was everything I'd ever dreamed of—a chance to support sustainable practices, to elevate talented designers without connections, to create real change in an industry I loved despite its flaws.

"You think you can buy me," I said finally. "With companies and foundations and power."

"No." He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. I flinched but didn't pull away. "I think I can show you that the cage you perceive isn't a cage at all. It's a launching pad."

A knock at the door interrupted us. Darren immediately slumped in posture, his expression going vacant as Peters entered without waiting for a response.

"Mrs. Allen, I apologize for the intrusion, but there's a situation that requires immediate attention."

"What now?" I asked wearily.

"Your phone has been ringing nonstop with media requests, but there's one caller in particular who's being... insistent." He hesitated. "A woman claiming to be Mr. Allen's former fiancée."

Darren remained perfectly still in his performance, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.

"Former fiancée?" I repeated, looking between Peters and my supposed vegetative husband.

"Yes. A Ms. Rebecca Winters. She says she has information about Mr. Allen's condition that you should be aware of." Peters looked uncomfortable. "Normally we wouldn't bother you with such calls, but given today's developments..."

"Put her through to my private line," I decided, curiosity overriding caution.

After Peters left, I turned to Darren. "Care to explain?"

His only response was to maintain his blank stare, committed to the charade now that others might be watching.

My phone rang minutes later. I answered cautiously. "This is Vanessa Allen."

"So you actually married him." The woman's voice was clipped, educated, with an undercurrent of anger. "I wasn't sure I believed it until I saw today's circus."

"Ms. Winters?"

"Rebecca, please. We should be on a first-name basis, considering we've both been victimized by the same man."

I glanced at Darren, who remained motionless but whose attention I could feel focused intensely on my call.

"What do you mean by victimized?" I asked carefully.

She laughed bitterly. "Has he told you anything about his 'accident'? About why he's supposedly in that wheelchair?"

"I was told it was a sailing incident."

"Is that what they're calling it now?" Another harsh laugh. "There was no accident, Vanessa. No traumatic brain injury. No sailing disaster."

My pulse quickened. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying your husband has been planning this for years. The fake coma, the marriage to you—all of it." Her voice lowered. "Three years ago, after I broke off our engagement, he became obsessed with you. I didn't know who you were then, just that he'd found someone new to fixate on."

I sank into a chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. "How do you know this?"

"Because he told me his plan. He said, and I quote, 'She'll never agree to marry me willingly, so I'll create a situation where she has no choice.' He talked about watching you, learning everything about you, waiting for the perfect vulnerability to exploit."

My eyes locked with Darren's across the room. Though his expression remained blank, I could see the truth in his gaze.

"Why are you telling me this now?" I managed to ask.

"Because I saw that livestream today. The way he looked at your picture..." She paused. "I recognized that look. It's the same one he had before things got dangerous with us. You need to get out, Vanessa. Before he decides you can never leave."

"Too late for that," I murmured, more to myself than to her.

"What?"

"Thank you for calling, Rebecca. I need to go now."

"Wait—" she began, but I ended the call.

For several long moments, silence stretched between Darren and me. Finally, he dropped his act, straightening in his chair.

"Rebecca always had a flair for the dramatic," he said casually, as if we were discussing an old friend.

"Was she telling the truth?" My voice was barely audible.

He considered me thoughtfully before responding. "Parts of it."

"Which parts?" My hands were trembling. "The part where you faked your condition to trap me? Or the part where you've been planning this for three years?"

"Does it matter?" He stood, moving toward me with that fluid grace that belied his supposed disability. "The outcome is the same. You're here. You're my wife. And now, you're one of the most powerful women in the business world."

"Because you made me your puppet!" I sprang to my feet, backing away from him. "Everything about this marriage is a lie!"

"Not everything," he said quietly.

"I want the truth, Darren. All of it. Now."

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. The truth is I saw you five years ago at a design showcase. Your work was revolutionary, but no one recognized it. I approached you afterward, but you were so focused on your career that you barely acknowledged me."

I searched my memory, trying to recall the encounter, but came up empty.

"I became... interested," he continued. "The more I learned about you, the more certain I became that we were meant to connect. When traditional approaches failed, I developed an alternative strategy."

"A strategy?" I repeated incredulously. "You call stalking and manipulation a 'strategy'?"

"I call it effective." He moved to the window, looking out at the darkness. "Rebecca discovered my plans and threatened to expose me. We parted ways. Shortly after, I began implementing the next phase—creating a scenario where you would come to me."

"Jacob's illness," I whispered as the pieces fell into place. "Did you—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. "I didn't cause your brother's condition. I'm not a monster, Vanessa. I simply recognized an opportunity when it presented itself."

"That's exactly what a monster would say," I shot back.

He turned to face me, something vulnerable flickering across his features so quickly I might have imagined it. "Perhaps. But a monster wouldn't have given you control of his empire today. A monster wouldn't have created a foundation to fulfill your dreams."

"A different kind of cage is still a cage."

"Then consider it a test." He approached me slowly, like one might a frightened animal. "You have the power now, Vanessa. Real power. Use it however you see fit."

"Including divorcing you?" I challenged.

His smile was cold. "You could try. But as I explained, the consequences would be... significant. Not just for you and me, but for thousands of employees, shareholders, and yes, your brother's continuing treatment."

The walls seemed to close in around me as I realized the true extent of his machinations. Darren hadn't just trapped me in a marriage—he'd entangled me in a web of responsibilities and consequences that made escape nearly impossible.

"I hate you," I whispered, the words inadequate for the storm of emotions inside me.

"For now," he acknowledged, reaching out to trace my cheekbone with his fingertip. I was too shocked to pull away. "But hate isn't the opposite of love, Vanessa. Indifference is. And you've never been indifferent to me, not from the moment we met."

His touch burned against my skin, and I finally jerked back. "Stay away from me."

"As you wish." He stepped back, that maddening half-smile playing on his lips. "But remember—the company is yours now. The foundation is yours. Your future is yours to shape. All I ask is that you include me in it."

With that, he turned and walked—not wheeled, but walked—to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob.

"One last thing," he said without turning. "Rebecca is a liar. Always has been. I would verify her claims before believing everything she says."

The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with the wreckage of what I'd believed to be reality.

I collapsed onto the bed, my mind racing through possibilities, each more constrained than the last. Darren had orchestrated the perfect trap—giving me everything I'd ever wanted professionally while ensuring I could never truly leave him personally.

The foundation. The company. Jacob's treatment. All connected to the man who had been watching me from afar for years, planning each move like a chess grandmaster.

My phone buzzed with an incoming text. Unknown number.

*Be careful, Vanessa. When I tried to leave him, he made sure I had nothing left. No career, no reputation, no future. The wheelchair is new, but the obsession is old. -R*

I stared at the message until the screen went dark, wondering which of them was lying—Rebecca with her warnings, or Darren with his justifications.

Perhaps both were telling their versions of the truth.

Either way, I was bound to a man who had constructed an elaborate fantasy around me, who had built a life for us without my knowledge or consent.

And now, with his public declaration, the whole world was watching.