Face-Slapping13 min read
"Pay Me Twenty Million — Or Watch Everything Burn"
ButterPicks18 views
"You want twenty million dollars to shut up?"
I set the laptop down and watched the black bar of the video loop again.
"Yes," the man on the other end typed, his voice calm. "Wire it to the account. Or the photos go live."
I tapped the table with my fingernail and smiled without warmth. "Tell me your name."
"Jack," he said. "Or the name my boss calls me."
I stood and walked to the window. The city was a gray sheet of glass. The sky wanted nothing from anyone.
"Wire it," I said. "To Jackson Blanc’s office. And tell your boss if the photos are real, I will make them worth ten times what they're asking."
A click. Then silence.
"Don't be clever," my assistant said when she saw my face. "This can sink us. The board is nervous."
"Good," I said. "Let them be nervous."
"Are you sure about the plan?" she asked.
"I'm sure of this: if someone wants two hundred million in damage, I'll give them a front row seat to their own ruin."
I closed my laptop. I had to move fast.
"Who leaked the photo?" I asked.
"Some small-time tech. The trail goes to a manager at a club called The Laurel. And the club's boss has the name Callum Zaytsev attached to his file."
"Keep digging," I said, and already my mind moved.
*
"We air that clip now, and the whole market drops," my mother-in-law said in the drawing room. Her voice was thin, threaded with an old kind of power.
"Let them take a drop," I said. "The market bounces. People forget. They are loud for a day."
"People do not forget damage to image easily," she snapped.
"You saw the pictures?" I asked.
She slid an iPad across the coffee table. The image was deliberate grainy. My face, blurred enough to be suggestive, not proof. Jackson, my husband, was clear in two frames—one of him handing a drink, one of him laughing with someone who looked like Bianca Chapman.
"My husband," she said. "Do something."
"I will," I said. I put the iPad down like it hurt.
"Do you know who did this?" she asked.
"I do," I said. "And I know how to turn it."
She looked at me like I was a child holding a knife.
"Just... don't lose the board," she said.
"Don't worry," I said. "I don't lose anything."
She left the room. Her footsteps were a map.
"Are you sure?" Jackson asked when he came into the kitchen. He was in a gray suit, untied tie, the kind of man who looked effortless even when he was tired.
"Wire twenty million to run a program to bury it? Or do we make the men who took the photos pay for the rest of their lives?" I asked.
He smiled like it was an old joke. "You always pick the dramatic route."
"Dramatic works," I said. "And you know it."
He poured coffee. "Will it cost the company?"
"It will cost the company a rumor," I said. "And someone else will pay the bill."
He looked at me, slow and careful. "Aiden is coming back."
A single word. The name landed like stone.
I felt myself smile. "So you say."
"She will change everything," he said.
"Then let's prepare for it," I said. "We will welcome her."
He lifted his mug to me. "Do you still want me?"
"Always," I said. "But don't make it easy."
He put the mug down. "I will not make it easy for you either."
We both laughed. It was a small war of two people who had made a deal.
*
The club was a glow of red and river music. I changed the meeting room number by one digit and sent a small message. If someone wanted to push, they deserved a show.
I walked down the plush corridor and stopped when I heard the voice.
"Boss, I'm sorry," said the manager with a whine.
"I told you not to sell plates without checking," said another voice. It was smooth and quiet, but there was a hard edge.
The door was open. I saw a scene: a man in a suit, half bent, bleeding. The other young man—Callum—sat back like he'd been at ease in a room where nothing was wrong.
"Do you know what happens to people who sell the boss out?" Callum asked softly.
"Please," said the manager. "I have a family."
Callum lifted his hand like a gentleman checking time. A boot-to-face followed.
I stepped back. My heart tapped a dull beat. I locked the door without making a sound.
"Excuse me," I said.
The room went quiet. The manager gasped. Callum's face tilted toward me. He smiled like a cat.
"You're the wife of Jackson Blanc," he said. "I remember."
"You're the man who sells people to the highest bidder," I said. "You like photos."
He didn't deny it. He leaned forward. "You came here alone," he said. "Why are you not afraid?"
"I know how this works," I said. "You're showy. You like to make threats. You like the taste of control."
He sat forward. "Maybe I should make you pay attention."
I walked into the room. "You tell me who sent the photos," I said. "And you tell your men to stop. Or I will make sure your club is closed."
He laughed, low. "Close The Laurel? You?"
"You don't have to kill me," I said. "You can stop and keep your darkness inside. Or you can fight me and lose everything in public."
He threw his head back and laughed. "You should watch your tongue. Men like me do not like orders."
"I only need proof," I said. "Proof I can use."
"Prove it," he said.
I smiled. "I will."
He didn't smile back.
"Tell your tech to hand over the trail," I said. "Send the guy who runs the camera here. Let him speak."
He blinked. A half-sentence. A nod. Two men in the corridor stiffened.
"You know what?" I said. "I have a better deal. Help me crush the people who blackmail my husband. Help me, now. Or I will go to the board and the press."
A slow, dangerous grin. "Why should I help the woman of the man I could ruin?"
"Because if I expose you as their source," I said, "I will do it with your records in hand."
He paled, just a breath. "You would burn me."
"I will burn the entire place if I must," I said.
He looked at his men. They were caught.
"Fine," he said. "I will give you a name."
"Good," I said. "Now leave the man with the wound. Send him home."
They took him away. I stayed.
"Callum," I said as they left. "If you help me, I will make sure you don't go to prison."
He looked at me like he wanted to bite into my answer. "And what's in it for me?"
"You get to keep your club," I said. "You get to cash out the man who set you up. And you get in my debt."
He considered. "I like debts."
"Good," I said. "Now show me the trail."
He tapped his phone, pulled files. Names. Transfers. A small chain. It went to a manager who sold the photos.
"Who paid him?" I asked.
"An account in Belize," he said. "One transfer, wire to an offshore. The name attached: a shell. But the phone belongs to Bianca Chapman’s PR. They have used someone before."
Bianca Chapman. A name that tasted like cheap perfume and brighter lights.
"She leaks a photo to push her own rise," Callum said. "She plays both sides."
I shut my eyes for a second. "So she used a leak to force Jackson."
"Either that or someone else uses her image," Callum said.
"Either way," I said, "we will expose the whole thing."
He smiled. "Careful what you wish for."
I left the club with the fragile kind of victory that felt heavy.
*
"Jackson," I said later that night when he came home, "we have the trail."
He raised his eyebrow. "You and Callum are now friends?"
"It’s a truce," I said. "I gave him something he wanted. He gave me the trail."
He sat on the edge of the bed. "What is it?"
"Bianca's PR account wired the man. The recording shows her orders."
"Then we go to the press?" he asked.
"No," I said. "We wait and we set a stage."
He smiled. "You are theatrical."
"I do not like half measures."
"But the board?" he asked.
"I handle the board," I said. "You handle the market."
He let out a slow laugh. "You should have been an actress."
"I tried that once," I said. "It didn't take."
He watched me. "You will make it right?"
"I will make it permanent."
"Permanent?" he asked.
"Permanent humiliation," I said.
He nodded. "I like the sound of that."
*
Bianca Chapman was glossy and sharp. She had always been the kind of woman who could make a camera love her and the room forget the time.
I invited her to a company showcase for a new ring. She arrived wearing a white dress, too perfect for the weather.
"Thank you for coming," I said, and I could see her PR smiling like a shark.
"Of course," she said. "Anything for Jackson."
I watched the small pit appear in her chest when she said his name.
"You've been very busy," I said casually. "I hear you have plans."
She fluttered a look at me. "Gossip clings. The press can be mean."
"Mean and polite," I said. "But some people like to use chaos to rise."
Her smile tightened. "Are you accusing me?"
"Not yet," I said. "But I am putting you on notice."
"Bianca, darling," her PR said, "our lawyers have drafts ready. Please do not damage our brand."
"Good," I said. "Then we'll do this the easy way."
She stood. "What do you want?"
I leaned in close and hissed softly, so only she could hear. "You will apologise publicly. You will give a signed release that you never paid any source and that your PR did not order any photos. You will attend a live interview where you clear this up. Or we will show the trace to the press and your account, and the world will watch you fall."
She looked like a deer caught in headlights. "You're bluffing."
"Are you sure?"
"You have no proof it's me," she spat.
I smiled. "Prove it."
"Fine." She raised her chin. "Do your worst."
I left the room with a nod.
That night, I fed the press one small, clean leak: a line. A hint. "Lawyers are preparing a joint statement for Bianca Chapman to clear the record." The media spun.
"The press will let me clear this themselves," Bianca said to her PR, relief leaking. She planned a statement and a live appearance at a small online press forum.
We let her do the stage.
*
The live went exactly as planned.
"Good evening," the host said. "Bianca Chapman joins us to clear the record on the recent photos."
Her PR sat beside her, hands folded.
"Bianca?" the host asked. "People say you orchestrated a leak to damage Jackson Blanc and his wife. What do you say?"
"I..." Bianca swallowed. Her face was perfect. "I didn't. I would never do that."
"Do you have proof?" the host asked.
She reached into her bag. "Yes. My lawyer has a statement." It was all rehearsed.
I had asked a friend to plant a question. The question came at the right point: "Why was a transfer found from your PR's account to a manager at The Laurel?"
Her PR paled. "That's a lie," he said quickly. "We never—"
"Did you authorize that transfer?" the host asked, reading a line from the paper we had quietly sent him.
"No," the PR said. "We would never—"
"Then who did?" the host asked.
Bianca opened her mouth, but the PR had to reply. "We are investigating."
"It will be easy," I thought. "And now it's public. The press is hungry."
We fed them the trace. Not enough to convict, but enough to pry at a seam. Bianca's story tightened like a noose.
Her lawyer called. "Stop this," he hissed into his phone. "Do not make me sue."
I sent another leak: an audio fragment. It was raw and sharp. Bianca's PR voice discussing "making the angle". The clip circulated like a match.
"That's not mine!" Bianca screamed. "We were edited!"
The host leaned in. "We have a payroll file that shows a transfer to a manager at The Laurel from an account the PR used."
The chat exploded. People called Bianca greedy. Sponsors paused.
Her phone never stopped ringing. "Cancel my appearances," she cried. She looked not like a star but like a child. The world that loved her plastic smile turned away in seconds.
By morning, Bianca's sponsors were quiet. The PR's account was frozen pending inquiry. Her image managers called and disconnected. The industry smelled blood and backed away.
When her PR walked into the studio with a paper in hand, the host switched off the cameras. No one wanted to be filmed with a sinking ship.
Her face crumpled live. She was raw. "I didn't do this," she said.
The comments got ugly. A small mob found its voice. "She did it." "It was for fame." "Probe them."
Her manager dropped her like a hot plate a day later.
She begged on a private line to me. "Evelyn, please. I did not... don't ruin me."
I turned the volume off. "You already set the match," I said in the text. "Now watch it burn."
"How will you live?" she asked.
"Like this," I wrote back.
Her career died in public. That was the first cut.
*
But public ruin alone is not enough for a predator. The man who sold the photos needed blood.
We found him. Callum gave us the trail to the manager in The Laurel. I had set an attorney to shadow the man. We gave the attorney the file and asked for a press-safe takedown. The attorney said he needed proof of extortion. We fed him bank statements. He went full speed.
We baited the trap with a fake transfer. The blackmailer took it. The transfer left traces. The police leaned in because a victim came forward to press charges for extortion.
"Do you know what you did?" the judge said to him when he stood in the dock. The camera lights were like a noon sun.
He tried to cry. The live feed ran for hours. Viewers hung on the sound of his plea.
"Please," he said. "I had a family. I had debts."
"You had a choice," I said into the press room as I watched on the screen. "You traded lives for cash. You will have to live with what you chose."
They sentenced him to community service and a record. His bank accounts were frozen. He lost his job. The club's license was suspended when investigators found drug and money laundering traces.
Callum's men were arrested. The club closed. The front door was boarded up under a day.
But the real punishment I reserved for Bianca's PR and the people who orchestrated the photos: the full street shame. I had the PR's messages, the accountant's transfer records. I leaked them to one trusted legal blog with everything noted. The blog called for transparency. The trending tags turned ugly.
Bianca's PR quit. He took the fall for the spreadsheets. But the damage to Bianca was permanent. Her interpreters—fans, sponsors, managers—left her for someone else. She found herself banned from the party circles she had curated. Her films lost offers. Her social feed filled with attack and pity.
She went on a livestream once, eyes red, begging for sympathy. People recorded, shared, and mocked. Her mother unfollowed her publicly. She posted photos of her own apologies and was mocked for it. People made parodies. The cameras which had once lifted her now hunted her for a reaction.
I watched the feed. The man who had called for twenty million now had nothing. He was being filmed begging outside a court. People recorded his humiliation. He lost his house, his savings, and his friends left him.
"Do you feel better?" Jackson asked that night when I sat in my office watching a live chunk of all this collapse.
"No," I said. "I feel precise."
"That is worse," he said.
"Good," I said.
*
Weeks later, Aiden returned.
She walked into the gallery shining like someone who had a secret and the world was about to learn. She had won the design award with a gown that looked like frost. Her face had not changed. She was quiet and cold. She moved like someone who had sacrificed a lot.
"You're back," Jackson said when he saw her in the public crowd. His voice altered, tightening.
"Yes," she said plainly. "I am back for the work."
I felt my throat tighten. He blinked like a man who had been given a small, private gift and wanted to hide it.
"You knew she'd come," he said later in a low voice.
"I did," I said. "And I prepared."
"Prepared how?" he asked.
"You taught me what I needed to know. The press loves a story. People will try to feed her to me as a reason to fall." I said. "I will not let anyone use her as a weapon."
"Do you care?" he demanded.
"I care that the weapon is taken apart," I said.
He laughed softly. "You always do that."
She accepted a prize that night. The cameras fell in love with her again. The story was sweet and bitter. She had legs of iron. She spoke gently.
"Evelyn," she said after the curtain fell, when she came to the green room. "It's been a long time."
"It has," I said.
"I was sorry then," she said. "For everything."
"People make mistakes," I said. "You left. You came back."
"Why do you look at me like that?" she asked. "Am I a problem?"
"You are a presence," I said.
She nodded. "I don't want to step into anyone's life."
"Then don't," I said. "But if you decide to stay, know what you'll face."
She smiled like an agreement. "Understood."
I did not believe her. I only planned.
*
There was one more scene to play.
I called a press conference and did something nobody expected. I walked into a room of cameras and said:
"Good morning. I'd like to clear one more thing. My husband and I have been the target of a staged attack. People used images and tricks to drive a story. We have evidence. We will make full use of it."
I let that hang.
A week later, we held a small but public disclosure. We showed transaction records, time stamps, and private messages. We did not release every intimate detail. But we released enough.
The crowd sat forward. "Who did this?" the anchor asked.
I scanned the room and looked at one woman—the PR who had once edited the clip, now pale and thin.
"Look at the record," I said. "Make your own mind."
She stood there, collapsing under a weight. The press taped it. The lawyers circled shirts.
Her husband left her that week. Sponsors ended contracts. She was chased out of her office by cameras. Her name was attached to 'fraud' hashtags. Her friends stopped calling.
Bianca paid the price. She was reduced to empty rooms and quiet calls. The man who had extorted us was sentenced and lost everything. Callum's club closed forever.
I watched scenes of collapse and felt the clear, nickel taste of cold victory. It was not the warm thing some romances promise. It was ice. That was enough.
*
In our living room that night, Jackson took my hand.
"You took them apart cleanly," he said.
"Cleanly?" I said. "I did not harm innocents."
"You are ruthless," he said softly.
"Good," I said. "You prefer it when I'm decisive."
He leaned in. "I prefer you."
"Then stop tempting trouble," I said.
He laughed like a man who could not keep his hands to himself. "I won't."
We held each other in the kind of silence that is not peace and not war. It is the truce of two people who know each other's edges.
"Do you still want a child?" he asked suddenly.
I looked away. "Not today," I said.
"One day?"
"Maybe."
He kissed my forehead. "Then let's be selfish tonight. No more knives."
"Deal," I said.
The phone buzzed on the table. Another blackmailer, another hungry man, another city. I did not look at it.
"Tomorrow," I said.
He smiled like a man who wanted to believe in a small tomorrow.
"Tomorrow," he said.
We rode the wave we had made. The public talked. The markets steadied. The board calmed. The people who had tried to destroy us were gone.
Aiden's name came up in the soft hours—she would design for us now, on a contract. She wanted to work. I signed the paper.
"You made me an offer," she said when our teams met. "I accepted."
"Good," I said. "Keep your talent. But not your knives."
She bowed. "Understood."
Later, alone in the kitchen, I looked at my reflection in the glass. The city was a sheet of stars. I felt tired and charged.
Someone waved a little white flag. Someone else walked away bloodied. The world kept moving.
I poured a cup of tea. The night was quiet.
"You did well," Jackson said behind me.
"People will call me many things," I said.
"Killjoy," he said.
"Strategist," I corrected.
He laughed, soft. "Strategist. I like it."
He kissed my neck. "Sleep, Evelyn."
I closed my eyes. For a second, I let myself imagine a life without leaks and knives, without blackmail and public stunts.
Then I heard my phone buzz again.
I smiled.
"Tomorrow," I whispered to the dark.
The End
— Thank you for reading —