The Scumbag CEO's Secret Genius Wife

Eleonora adjusted the angle of the high-lumen ring light. The harsh white glare forced her to squint, a physical reflex that felt like a warning she was ignoring. She checked the monitor. Her skin looked porcelain, flawless, a mask constructed of pixels and light designed to hide the woman beneath it.

Beside her, Chloe was chewing on her thumbnail. The sound was a wet, rhythmic click-click-click that grated against Eleonora's nerves. It was the sound of anxiety made manifest.

Eleonora reached out and placed a hand over Chloe's trembling fingers. She didn't say anything. She just pressed down, a silent command to breathe.

She turned her attention to the audio mixer. The input levels were peaking in the red. Resistance. She twisted the gain knob to the left, smoothing out the potential distortion. It had to be perfect.

On the secondary monitor, the viewer count ticked upward. It moved like a speedometer on a race car. Four hundred thousand. Five hundred thousand.

Eleonora's heart remained a steady, metronomic beat. It was a sharp, physical squeeze in the center of her chest. Half a million people were waiting for blood.

She inhaled deeply, expanding her diaphragm against the waistband of her jeans, forcing the air down to suppress the flicker of adrenaline rising in her throat. Then, she looked at the camera lens and plastered on the smile. It was the smile that built her brand, the one that masked the calculating mind behind the outrage.

The countdown timer hit zero.

The "ON AIR" light turned a menacing red.

"Welcome back," Eleonora said. Her voice was an octave lower than her natural speaking tone, steady and authoritative.

The chat box exploded. It was a waterfall of text, moving so fast it was illegible, a blur of neon colors and angry emojis. They wanted the tea. They wanted the takedown.

"We all know why we are here," Eleonora continued. "We are here to talk about patterns. About men who think they can use women as stepping stones."

She gestured to Chloe, who was sitting just out of frame, a silhouette of victimhood. Eleonora began to recount the narrative. Tyler Brock. The lies. The stolen credit cards. The manipulation. This was the appetizer, the relatable story that primed the audience for the main course.

Every word was a calculated strike. The viewer count surged past eight hundred thousand.

"You want proof?" Eleonora asked, her finger hovering over the iPad screen. "I have the receipts."

The number hit one million. This was the precipice.

Chloe reached for a glass of water on the desk. Her hand spasmed. Water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the sleek white surface of the desk, dangerously close to the mixer.

"Shit," Chloe whispered.

Eleonora's eyes darted to the spill. A perfect, unplanned opportunity. She grabbed a microfiber cloth to stem the flow before it hit the electronics. "Keep it together," she murmured, her voice a low command meant only for Chloe.

In that fraction of a second, her