Chapter 22 - The Court of Public Opinion
There is a distinct difference between corporate warfare and public assassination. In the boardroom, the math never lies. But in the media, the truth is entirely irrelevant; the only thing that matters is who shouts the loudest.
By 6:00 PM that evening, Bradley Morgan had launched a catastrophic, meticulously planned media blitz.
Liam and I sat in our living room, the roaring fireplace offering no warmth against the chill of the broadcast playing on our seventy-inch television. Bradley was sitting on the set of a notorious, sensationalist prime-time interview show. He was playing the role of the broken, reformed man perfectly.
"I made mistakes," Bradley told the host, squeezing out a single, calculated tear. "I failed as a husband. But I paid my debt to society. I went to prison. And what did my ex-wife do? She used my downfall to steal my family's legacy. She built the Sanctuary Foundation on the ashes of my father's hard work. And now, she uses her billions to illegally bribe judges to keep me from seeing my own son."
The host, smelling blood and ratings, leaned forward. "Are you saying Vivian Lawson manipulated the justice system?"
"I am saying she is a ruthless, vindictive corporate raider masking herself as a philanthropist," Bradley stated, looking directly into the camera. "She isn't a victim. She’s a monster. And she stole my child."
I muted the television. The silence in the living room was absolute.
"He spent five years in prison planning this interview," Liam said, his hands resting on his knees, his knuckles white. "He’s partnered with someone. A disgraced ex-convict doesn't land a prime-time exclusive on a major network twenty-four hours after his release."
"You're right," I murmured, my mind racing through the variables. "Someone with deep pockets bought that airtime for him. Someone who hates me as much as he does."
My phone buzzed. It was Harold.
"Vivian," Harold said, his voice clipped. "The fallout is immediate. Two of our major corporate sponsors for the Foundation just suspended their donations pending an 'internal review.' The media is spinning the narrative that you are an alienating mother and a corporate thief. Our stock is dipping."
"Let it dip," I said, leaning back into the sofa, my eyes fixed on Bradley's frozen face on the screen. "An enemy who fights in the open is infinitely easier to kill than one hiding in the dark. Harold, I want you to pull the corporate filings for the television network that just aired this interview. Follow the holding companies."
"It's a massive conglomerate, Vivian," Harold warned. "It will take weeks to trace the dark money."
"You have twelve hours," I ordered. "Bradley just threw a grenade at my sanctuary. I am going to find out who handed him the pin."
For the next two days, the media storm was relentless. Paparazzi camped outside our gates. Hit pieces circulated online, painting me as a cold, calculating black widow. They dug up old, out-of-context photos from my time with the Morgans. They tried to break me with shame.
They didn't realize I was immune to shame.
On Thursday night, Liam walked into my home office. I was surrounded by digital ledgers, drinking my fifth cup of black coffee. He gently took the mug from my hand and pulled me out of the chair, wrapping his arms around my waist.
"Noah asked why the men with cameras are outside," Liam said softly, kissing the top of my head.
"What did you tell him?" I asked, resting my cheek against his chest.
"I told him his mother is a superhero, and the cameras are just trying to get a picture of her cape," Liam smiled, a deep, resonant expression of absolute love. "Have you slept?"
"I don't need sleep. I need the routing numbers," I said, stepping back to look at my monitors.
Suddenly, a file dropped into my secure inbox from Harold. I opened it, my eyes rapidly scanning the data.
"Got you," I whispered, a cold, predatory thrill racing through my veins.
"Who is backing Bradley?" Liam asked, leaning over the desk.
"The network that aired the interview is owned by a media group called Vanguard Media," I explained, tapping the screen. "And Vanguard Media is a subsidiary of a private equity trust managed by Victoria Pierce."
Liam’s jaw dropped. "Victoria Pierce? The daughter of Alexander Pierce? The woman who tried to frame me?"
"Yes," I smiled, a terrifying, matriarchal smile. "She’s running her empire from a federal prison cell. She used her remaining dark money to buy Bradley's parole and secure his television interview. She wants revenge. She’s using Bradley as her attack dog."
"So what do we do?" Liam asked. "We can't sue a woman who is already in prison."
"We don't sue her," I said, closing my laptop and grabbing my coat. "We don't play defense in a courtroom. We play offense on live television."
I looked at my husband, the fire in my soul burning brighter than it ever had before.
May you like
"Call the network," I commanded. "Tell them Vivian Lawson wants equal airtime. I am going on the exact same prime-time show tomorrow night. And I am bringing the receipts."
---
