Page 61 of Filthy Rich Daddies

Credit card information.

Thousands of them.

We don’t know how many, not yet. But we know they’re hitting the dark web—raw dumps, rapid-fire.

I want to scream. I almost do.

Instead, I drink another Red Bull and try to stop shaking long enough to send a company-wide email. We’re investigating. We’re isolating damage. We’ll fix it.

I’m lying. I don’t know if we can fix it.

And this all could’ve been avoided if we’d implemented StarConnector when I first suggested it. If Marcus hadn’t said no. If Marcus hadn’t looked me in the eye and told me it was too expensive, too experimental, not reliable enough. If he hadn’t made me feel like an overeager teenager pitching a science fair project instead of a professional trying to future-proof an empire.

I shove another server rack door open and punch in my override code.

Nothing works fast enough. The room is hot. My head is hot. My body is vibrating. We’re hemorrhaging trust and reputation and money.

Every second the news spreads, our stock drops another half percent.

Someone throws open the server room door. It slams against the wall. I flinch.

“You’re on in forty-five,” says a voice I’ve heard but can’t place. I think her name is Cheryl, but I might be wrong about that.

I blink. “I’m what?”

“The press conference.”

“No,” I say automatically. “Get Dean. Or Tic. Anyone else.”

“You’re the CTO. You called for the press conference, remember?” she says gently.

Did I?

I sit back on my heels, back pressed against the side of the metal rack. I don’t remember when I called for a press conference or when I sat down. I realize, dimly, that I’m still wearing the same jeans from yesterday, or maybe the day before, and they smell like coffee and defeat. Maybe that’s just me.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” I mumble.

“You’ve got forty-five minutes,” she says again. “That’s all I can give you. They’re already arriving.”

She leaves. I stay there for a full minute longer, staring up at the blinking lights like they might blink out in Morse code. They seem to say, “You’re not okay.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

But they don’t.

This is my mess to explain. So I get up.

The conference room at headquarters has been staged. Rows of reporters, lights positioned at flattering angles, our branded banner behind the podium. It looks theatrical and neat, like we’re hosting a cooking demo instead of trying to mop blood off the walls of our reputation.

I hate this part. Always have.

I’d rather be under a desk with a laptop, fixing things where no one’s watching. I like quiet, I like code, I like people who don’t expect me to sound like a professional. Colin Copeland is a tech gremlin, not a monkey who dances for the cameras.

But Marcus is “unavailable.” Tic is still auditing the company from the outside, and Dean is lying low while we navigate the minefield of what the board may or may not know about Marcus.

Which leaves me.

My hands are shaking. I clutch the water bottle someone gives me like it might anchor me. I look like shit. I have to—no one looks good on…what’s it been, fifty hours without real sleep? I’m mostly certain my hoodie looks clean-ish. The jeans? Not so much. Do I care? Marginally.