He Streamed Our Divorce, I Streamed His Funeral

The headquarters of Vance Media hummed with the frantic energy of a beehive that had just been kicked. I walked through the glass revolving doors, my heels clicking a sharp staccato against the polished marble floor. Security guards rushed past me, barking into headsets, their eyes wild. The PR team was likely in a war room somewhere, hyperventilating into paper bags.

I held the manila envelope tight against my chest. It was the prop I needed. The physical justification for my presence. Marcus had texted me twenty minutes ago—Bring the revised merger papers to my office. Now.— knowing full well that I would have to walk through the gauntlet of his empire to get to him.

The elevator ride to the top floor was suffocating. I watched the numbers climb, feeling the pressure in my ears deepen. I wasn’t just a betrayed wife anymore. I was a variable in a hostile takeover. My hand drifted to the phone in my pocket, the ghost of the KillSwitch_ command still tingling on my fingertips. Not yet. I needed the audience to peak.

The doors dinged open, sliding apart to reveal the penthouse suite. The air here smelled different—richer, scented with imported leather and expensive cologne. I stepped out, my stride deliberately slow, measuring the distance to the double doors at the end of the hall.

But it was the noise that stopped me. It wasn't the muffled sound of a business meeting. It was the rhythmic, bass-heavy thud of club music, vibrating through the floorboards.

I moved toward the source, drawn by the morbid curiosity that had kept me watching the stream the night before. The doors to the main boardroom were slightly ajar. I pushed one open, just an inch, just enough to see.

My breath hitched in my throat.

The boardroom was gone. The long mahogany table where we had decided the fate of thousands of employees had been shoved to the side. In its place stood a ring of softbox lights and tripods.

And there, in the center of the disaster, was Scarlett.

She was wearing my wedding gown.

I recognized the lace. I recognized the intricate beadwork I had spent months choosing with a designer in

Milan. It was a vintage piece, a one-of-a-kind treasure that had been sealed in a climate-controlled vault.

Now, it was slit up the thigh, the delicate fabric straining against her chest as she moved.

"Hey, loves," Scarlett purred into a handheld camera, her voice dripping with that practiced, sugary seduction. She spun around, the white silk flaring out like a corrupted halo. "Just getting settled in my new office. What do you think of the decor?"

She laughed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. The chat was scrolling furiously on a monitor just out of frame. Tips were raining down—digital rockets and flowers exploding across the screen. She was making millions just by existing in this space, by violating the sanctity of my history.

"Come here, babe," Marcus’s voice cut through the music.

He stepped into the frame, wearing a suit jacket with no tie, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked relaxed, arrogant, the king of his twisted kingdom. He wrapped an arm around Scarlett’s waist, pulling her back against his chest, his hand resting possessively on her hip—right over the ruin of my dress.

"The CEO wants to say hi," Scarlett teased, tilting her head back to look at him.

Marcus looked directly into the lens, his eyes dark and hungry. "We're redefining the workplace experience,"

he said, his tone dripping with innuendo. "Efficiency is all about… friction."

He leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of Scarlett’s neck. She gasped, a theatrical, breathless sound that I knew was fake but the viewers ate up. Her hand came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, encouraging the public display of affection.

I watched, frozen, as his hand slipped from her hip, traveling over the silk of the wedding dress, tracing the curve of her waist. It was a performance, a choreographed act of debauchery designed to maximize engagement. They were playing the audience like a fiddle, using the shock value of their location—the sanctum of corporate power—to fuel the fire.

Marcus, I thought, the name a sharp splinter in my mind. You always did love an audience.

But as I watched them, I didn't feel the burning heat of jealousy. I felt a cold, distinct clarity. I saw the strain in Scarlett’s smile as she held the pose. I saw the way Marcus checked his own watch while kissing her neck, calculating the remaining airtime. They weren't lovers. They were content creators. And I was the one who held the copyright to the platform they were standing on.

I let the door click shut, the sound masked by the bass of the music. I didn't barge in. I didn't scream. That was what they wanted. That was the climax of the episode they were filming.

Instead, I turned and walked toward Marcus’s private office at the end of the hall. I pushed the door open and marched inside. The room was dark, the only light coming from the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city. I tossed the manila envelope onto his desk. It landed with a slap, the final punctuation mark of a sentence that didn't need to be spoken.

"Ms. Vance?"

The voice came from the shadows near the door. I spun around, my guard up.

A young man stood there, holding a tablet. He was tall, with sharp features and eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He was dressed in a sharp suit, but there was a lean, predatory grace to his posture that reminded me of a younger, hungrier version of the men I used to mentor.

"Julian," I said, the name clicking into place. Julian Vance. No relation, but I remembered him. He had been an intern in the coding department three years ago, a prodigy with a talent for pattern recognition. I had pulled strings to get him into the elite accelerator program.

He looked different now. Harder. Successful.

"They're waiting for you in the boardroom," Julian said, his voice low and respectful, but his eyes were wide with confusion. "Mr. Vance… he requested you stay. He said he wanted to discuss the 'future of the brand' with you present."

"I'm sure he does," I said dryly. "I assume you're here to ensure I don't cause a scene?"

Julian hesitated. He looked at the envelope on the desk, then back at me. He took a step closer, lowering his voice to a whisper.

"I saw the stream," he said. "I saw what she’s wearing. I saw what he’s doing."

I stiffened, waiting for the pity. Waiting for the leering question.

Julian’s eyes narrowed. He didn't look at me like a pathetic victim. He looked at me with a dawning realization, his gaze sharpening into something akin to awe—or perhaps fear.

"Master," he breathed, the old honorific slipping out before he could stop it. He glanced at the closed boardroom door, then back to me. "If you were willing to take action, if you really wanted to… none of these people would leave this building standing."

I paused, my hand hovering over the light switch. I looked at Julian, really looked at him, and saw the loyalty

I had cultivated years ago still burning beneath the corporate polish. He knew what I was capable of. He knew that the code running the phones in everyone's pockets was mine.

I turned my head, looking through the glass wall of the office toward the massive screen in the lobby downstairs. Even from here, I could see the livestream playing on the loop—Scarlett in the dress, Marcus with his predatory grin. The view counter was climbing. Five million. Six million.

The world was watching. The server loads were maxing out. The digital bullets were flying.

"Wait a bit," I said softly, my voice barely audible over the hum of the city below. I turned back to Julian, a small, cold smile touching my lips. "Let the bullets fly. Let the traffic build up."

I reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around my phone, feeling the power of the dormant command resting there.

"They want a show?" I whispered. "I’ll give them a finale they’ll never forget."

I walked past him, out of the office, and toward the elevator. I wasn't leaving because I was defeated. I was leaving because the show was just getting started, and I was the only one who knew how the script ended.