Chapter 2 Commercial Secrets for Blackmail
Chapter 2: Commercial Secrets for Blackmail
I've always believed that revenge, like a good cup of coffee, is best served at precisely the right temperature. Too hot, and you burn yourself. Too cold, and you lose the impact.
Shane's merger documents lay spread across my lap as I sat cross-legged on my tiny bed at 3 AM. The penthouse was quiet except for the occasional ping from my surveillance app. Three red dots moved across my screen – my employers, my ex-lovers, my targets – all sleeping soundly in their respective wings of the luxury apartment they shared.
How convenient they'd decided to pool their resources after I'd supposedly ruined each of their lives. Shane's business acumen, Malcolm's fame, and Freddie's academic reputation – a trinity of male privilege under one roof. And now, me, underneath it all, the foundation upon which their comfortable lives rested.
Their former girlfriend. Their current maid.
I studied Shane's acquisition plans with professional interest. Donovan Enterprises was planning to absorb a small tech startup called NeuraTech – the same company Freddie had been consulting for. The same company Malcolm had invested in after I'd recommended it when we were dating.
My fingers traced the confidential projections. If this merger went through, Shane would effectively be stealing intellectual property that Freddie had helped develop, while Malcolm would lose his early investor advantage.
What a perfect little bomb to drop between them.
---
"Your underwear, Mr. Townsend," I said the next morning, placing the freshly ironed stack on Malcolm's bed. The rose oil scent hung heavy in the air, almost masking the smell of his hangover and desperation.
"Did you use the right temperature? Last time they were too hot," Malcolm mumbled, scrolling through his phone. Another scandal management meeting, no doubt.
"Precisely 145 degrees. I remember your... sensitivity," I replied, turning away to hide my smile. As I gathered the laundry basket, I "accidentally" dropped Shane's merger documents on the floor, making sure they landed face-up with the NeuraTech logo clearly visible.
Malcolm's reflexes were still sharp. He snatched the papers before I could reach for them.
"What the hell is this?" His eyes widened as he scanned the contents. "Where did you get these?"
I arranged my features into a mask of innocent confusion. "I'm sorry, Mr. Townsend. They must have gotten mixed up with the ironing. Mr. Donovan had me organize his office yesterday."
Malcolm's face darkened as he continued reading. "That backstabbing son of a bitch," he muttered. "He knows I have stakes in NeuraTech."
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"Oh dear," I gasped, hand over my mouth. "I should return those immediately. Mr. Donovan would be furious if he knew I'd misplaced confidential documents."
"Leave them," Malcolm commanded, his actor's voice slipping into the authoritarian tone he used in that spy thriller that earned him a Golden Globe nomination. "And Maxine? You never saw these."
I nodded meekly. "Of course, sir."
As I closed his door, I caught a glimpse of him dialing Freddie's number, his face contorted with rage.
Phase one: complete.
---
Professor Freddie Henderson's study always smelled of old books and hypocrisy. I dusted his awards and diplomas – half of which he'd earned using my research help during our three-year relationship.
"Maxine." His voice startled me. "My office hours ended early."
"Professor Henderson," I acknowledged, continuing to dust. "I've organized your research notes by date and subject, as requested."
He moved to his desk, checking through the papers with the nervous energy of a man who'd just received a threatening call. "Did you... see anything unusual while cleaning?"
"Only these," I replied innocently, placing a stack of printouts on his desk. "Email exchanges between Mr. Townsend and someone about NeuraTech data? I wasn't sure where to file them."
The color drained from Freddie's face as he snatched the emails – emails I'd carefully fabricated using Malcolm's email template and digital signature.
"Where did you find these?" he demanded, voice trembling slightly.
"In the common printer tray, Professor. I thought they might be important."
Freddie collapsed into his chair, scanning the fake emails that suggested Malcolm was planning to sell NeuraTech's proprietary algorithms to a competitor. The same algorithms Freddie had helped develop.
"That's why he called me," Freddie muttered, more to himself than to me. "He's trying to cover his tracks."
"Is everything alright, sir?" I asked, the perfect picture of concerned servitude.
He looked up at me, and for a moment, I saw calculation behind his glasses. "Maxine, I may need your help with something... discreet."
"Of course, Professor," I said, lowering my eyes. "Discretion is part of my job description."
Later that evening, I watched through my surveillance app as Freddie slipped into Malcolm's study with a USB drive, copying files while glancing nervously over his shoulder. Three hours later, Malcolm entered Shane's home office, photographing documents with his phone.
The seeds of distrust were sprouting beautifully.
---
"Your coffee, Mr. Donovan," I announced the next morning, placing the steaming cup on Shane's desk with practiced precision. "Eighty-five degrees, three ice cubes."
Shane barely looked up from his spreadsheets. "The quarterly projections are missing. Find them."
"Right away, sir." I moved around his desk, bending to check the lower drawers, using the movement to observe his coffee routine.
As expected, he reached for the cup, blew on it once (a habit from our dating days), and took a sip. Then came the cough – violent and sudden.
"What the hell?" He sputtered, examining the cup. His fingers found the tiny device I'd attached to the bottom – a miniature recording device disguised as a coffee stain.
His eyes met mine, cold fury replacing confusion. "You think I wouldn't notice?"
I stepped back, feigning shock. "Sir, I don't know what that is! The cups come from the kitchen staff. Perhaps someone—"
"Save it," he snapped, crushing the device between his fingers. "I knew you couldn't be trusted. This is grounds for immediate termination."
"With all due respect, Mr. Donovan," I replied, my voice steady despite my racing heart, "that would violate section three of our employment contract regarding wrongful dismissal without evidence. And I believe planting recording devices violates several privacy laws that could interest your board of directors."
He stood slowly, towering over me. "Are you threatening me, Maxine?"
I smiled. "I'm simply reminding you of our mutual legal obligations. Now, shall I bring you a fresh cup of coffee? Perhaps with less... technology?"
The rage in his eyes confirmed what I already knew: Shane Donovan wasn't accustomed to being outsmarted, especially not by the woman he'd once discarded.
---
That afternoon, the real show began.
I was polishing the living room windows when all three men burst in from different directions, their faces twisted with suspicion and anger.
"You sold me out!" Malcolm shouted at Shane, waving printed emails. "You knew I had stake in NeuraTech!"
"Me?" Shane laughed bitterly. "That's rich coming from the man who's been feeding company secrets to competitors!"
Freddie adjusted his glasses nervously. "Both of you need to calm down. This is clearly a misunderstanding—"
"Shut up, Professor," Shane snarled. "Your research partner just called me about suspicious data transfers from your university account."
The three of them circled each other like wolves, each holding their own pieces of manufactured evidence that I'd carefully planted over the past forty-eight hours.
I quietly slipped from the room, retreating to the security office where all the monitors displayed the unfolding chaos. As they shouted accusations, I plugged in my phone and broadcast their argument directly to the stock market ticker display they all shared investments in – a digital billboard of their imploding partnership.
Just as the argument reached its peak, their phones chimed simultaneously. I watched on the security feed as each man checked his screen, their expressions shifting from anger to confusion to fear.
The message I'd sent was simple: "Thank you for your cooperation. Stock market has crashed. – A.B."
On the financial channel playing in the background, a breaking news alert flashed: "Donovan-Townsend-Henderson Group shares plummet 47% following leaked internal disputes."
I leaned back in my chair, savoring the moment. The first real tremor in my earthquake of vengeance.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text from an unlisted number:
"Phase two complete. Proceed to next stage. – A.B."
I smiled, thinking of the sister I hadn't seen in five years. The sister who'd been planning this revenge even longer than I had.
Ainsley Bates was ready to make her entrance.
