Chapter 4The Framed Fiancé

Major social media platforms and forums were flooded with "exposés" about me. The posts were alarmingly uniform, clearly part of a coordinated campaign.

The smear tactics focused on three key points:

First, that I was a ruthless tyrant. An "anonymous ex-employee" claimed I was a dictator at work who verbally abused staff, alleging I once bullied a veteran employee into a stress-induced resignation over a minor mistake. The post was accompanied by a blurry photo of me looking stern.

Second, that my personal life was a moral cesspool. A so-called "insider" revealed that despite my engagement, I kept multiple mistresses, even listing the names of several college students and vague dates and locations, described with salacious detail as if witnessed firsthand.

Third, and most damningly, that I was a psychopath who would stop at nothing to get what I wanted. This narrative, building on the events of the gala, painted me as a monster consumed by jealousy who had hired thugs to brutally break Vincent's leg to force Isabelle into submission. A classic "if I can't have you, no one can" pathology.

This narrative was amplified by an army of bots and paid trolls, who spammed comment sections and pushed hashtags like #CancelCraneCorp, #JusticeForIsabelle, and #SupportTrueLove to the top of trending lists. They had successfully twisted a business dispute into a personal vendetta, painting Crane Corporation as an evil empire crushing two innocent lovers.

Then, to capitalize on the momentum, Isabelle and Vincent went live on a popular streaming platform.

On screen, Isabelle sat with red, swollen eyes, nestled against Vincent in his wheelchair. They both looked like martyrs who had endured unspeakable persecution. They recounted my "atrocities" with tears in their eyes, describing how their pure, beautiful love was being systematically destroyed by me and my family.

Vincent’s performance was masterful. With pained, noble expressions, he told the camera, "I don't blame Mr. Crane. I only blame myself for being too far beneath Isabelle. It was my low status that brought this disaster upon us… But our love is not a crime. We will fight to the end. For this love, we have no regrets!"

The chat exploded. It was a deluge of vitriol from trolls and duped viewers. "TOBY CRANE MUST DIE," "CRANE CORP GO BANKRUPT," "I'm crying for Isabelle and Vincent," the comments scrolled past in a blur. Any stray voice of reason was instantly drowned in a tsunami of hate.

The meticulously planned media blitz worked. After its morning collapse, Slate Industries’ stock miraculously rebounded. Fueled by "sympathy investors" and speculators betting on their "brave resistance" against a corporate giant, the stock surged into the green.

Meanwhile, Crane Corporation’s stock began to tank. The sudden storm of negative PR had investors worried about brand damage and potential legal risks.

I stared at the two starkly contrasting lines on my monitor. One, representing the Slates, soaring against all odds. The other, representing my family, in freefall.

The cold light of the screen illuminated my face as a grim smile touched my lips.

Go on. Dance. Perform.

Did you really think your pathetic little media circus could shake the foundations of my family's legacy? Did you believe the pity of strangers and a few nasty comments could actually hurt me?

How naive.

You've mistaken the battlefield of business for a stage. And you've forgotten the real rules of the game.

Just as Crane Corporation's stock hit its daily trading limit, plummeting as far as it could go, Vincent called. The act was gone. His voice was dripping with undisguised triumph.

"So, Toby. Now do you see how things stand?"

"Out of pity for the two years you spent licking Isabelle's boots, I'll give you two choices. One, you pay a fifty billion dollar 'break-up fee,' and we all walk away. Two, you watch your family's empire crumble into dust and become a broke, forgotten nobody."

I walked to the window, watching the endless stream of traffic below. "I'm choosing option three," I said calmly. "I'm going to send you and the entire Slate family to hell."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a furious roar. "You're fucking insane—"

I didn't wait to hear the rest. I hung up and turned off my phone.

For the next two days, our stock remained depressed. The online hate campaign continued to rage. The atmosphere in the company was thick with tension, but I went about my business as usual.

On the morning of the third day, when the company’s losses surpassed one hundred billion, I picked up an encrypted phone and sent a short message.

"You can begin."