CHAPTER FOUR- The fall

|Thomas|

A famous I* influencer gags between my thighs, eyes stinging, and lips smudged with lipstick.

I hum to the sensation, smoke puffing out of my lips.

She raises her head, and I clench my teeth.

"Do you want the deal or not?" My voice comes out flat.

She nods, trying to look seductive.

"Then suck and swallow."

I lean back, observing her eager compliance.

So dumb.

A notification chimes on the armrest—a notification from my burner account flares across the screen.

Another trolling, perhaps. A smirk plays on my lips as I tap the screen.

The first sentence of the post slams me in the face.

"Scholarship Student Fires Back at Billionaire Singer for Harassment: 'He groped me first!'"

Is she insane? She dares to fight back?

My jaw locks.

I shove the influencer, my fingers flying across the screen to the comment section, a hot, sharp fury burning beneath my fingertips.

"Is everything alright?"

The whore between my legs asks.

"Get out," I say without looking up.

"But I just got here," she whines.

My eyes dart to hers, cold enough to freeze the air between us. "Do you have a death wish?"

That seemed to have worked because her face drains color as she scrambles and rushes on, heels skittering across the marble floor.

Once the door closes behind her, I stand, pacing to the vast window of my penthouse.

"Whoa! She's brave," one tweet says. "It takes guts to call out a man like Thomas Knights!"

I ball my fist.

Brave? I scoff. Since when does slander count as bravery?

I keep scrolling, and a post shared hundreds of thousands of times stares back at me.

A verified account. Of course.

"@AmaraRossOfficial

She was groped. She fought back. And she's the villain? Make it make sense. #IStandWithEver"

@AmaraRossOfficial

When poor women speak, rich men call it defamation. When rich men assault, the world calls it an accident. Ever Jones deserves to be heard, not destroyed."

My teeth clench.

Of course, it's her. Amara Ross. The self-proclaimed feminist and professional Clout-chaser, still bitter I dumped her for her hotter sister.

My nose flares. Always inserting her hypocrisy where it doesn't belong.

Her thread has gone viral—racking up millions of likes and retweets. The comments blur together—

"Clock it, Queen!"

"Cancel Knights Holdings"

"He deserves accountability."

"#BoycottThomasKnights"

I exhale, a sharp, disgusted sound.

Women are predictable. They either want to be worshipped or rescued. Never satisfied, and too loyal to their emotions to ever be rational.

Fools.

I fasten the belt around my waist and stand up, crumpling a paper tightly in my palm.

Feminism, my ass. More like emotional blackmail with a better PR.

I walk to the glass wall, the only thing around me is the furious pulse in my own ears until my phone buzzes in my palm. I glance at the screen. Mark.

"You'd better have a good reason for calling," I answer, my voice low.

"Sir, we, uh, we just lost the Onyx perfumery deal. His voice is a nervous tremor. "They are pulling out due to... public sentiments. They don't want to associate with..."

"Finish that sentence." My voice is dangerously quiet.

"...with a man in the middle of an assault controversy."

My hands tighten around the phone, the plastic casing groaning in my grip.

"Get the legal team on the phone."

"Yes—"

"Now!" The word cracks through the room like a whip.

A beep sounds, and then a voice follows.

"Legal team on the line, sir."

"Listen to me carefully and note every fucking thing I say," My voice becomes colder. "I want you to file every damn lawsuit in the books against this... nuisance."

"But sir, we've already reviewed this on our end, and we advise you not to do that."

My jaw ticks. "Excuse me?"

A pause follows. I can almost hear him sweating.

The head of Legal clears his throat. "Mr. Knights, we know you have the right to press charges, but it could backfire."

"Backfire?" I repeat, voice flat.

"Yes, sir. The internet doesn't care about the truth. They care about headlines. If we sue a scholarship student, it becomes 'Rich Crushes Poor.' Public sympathy swings her way entirely and—"

"Do you think I care about that?"

"Of course not, sir," he says too quickly, "But you should."

"Oh, really?" I bite back with a dry laugh.

"If you file a lawsuit, the... the brands," he stutters, "we work with will panic, and the board can sideline you and bring in an interim CEO. Even if you win in court, you'll lose control."

My right eye twitches, and I turn away from the window, his last line echoing in the silent space around me.

"So I'm supposed to sit back while some nobody ruins my reputation?"

"Temporarily," another lawyer interjects. "We recommend a quiet strategy—issue a neutral PR statement—something about respecting women's rights, internal investigation, that sort of tone."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, the pressure building behind my eyes.

Fuck. If I go against legal advice, my father will have leverage to oust me from my label. Something he had worked tirelessly to achieve since I rebelled and left his company.

"Get Mark back on the phone."

"You asked for me, sir." Mark's voice is timid.

"Get the media team to issue a PR statement. And attach a sum. Enough to shut that lousy bitch up for good," I declare firmly.

"Yes—"

I end the call and hurl the phone on the couch.

A slight headache hammers behind my temple. I drain a glass of scotch whiskey into my throat, the burn doing nothing to soothe the rage.

I walk into the bathroom, turn the shower knob, and let the water run through my hair. The cold water bites into my body, and I welcome it.

The memory of the party, of that woman's face, flares behind my eyes. I slam my fist into the tiles. The impact shudders up my arm.

Foolish attention-seeking whore!

Who the fuck does she think she is? About to ruin everything I've worked for in the past years?

I scoff. Is that skank that desperate for—

The insistent ring of my phone cuts through the roar of the water. I turn the water off and stride out naked and dripping to pick it up.

"You swore not to be caught in another controversy."

The hoarse voice of my father sifts into my ears, and my body tightens.

"I'm handling it." I grit out.

A mocking laugh echoes into my ears. "Are you? Your support is dwindling every second. The world is finally seeing through the monster you are."

"Did you call me to gloat?" I hiss, my fingers tightening around the phone.

I'm one second away from slamming this phone on the marble floor.

"And hurt my son?" I can taste the deceit behind his words. "I only wanted to see how you're doing."

"You will never own my label, and I will never ask you for help."

"Fine," he says, calm. "But don't ruin this family any further."

A dry laugh slips out of my throat. "What family? The one you already ruined?"

He hums, ignoring my words.

"It's not too late to give up this childish dream of being a singer. Serbia will suit you better."

"I'd rather chew on pins."

"Then you will," danger dripping from his voice, "Because you are nothing, and I'll crush you. Just like your pathetic mother."

The line goes dead. I don't remember moving, but the phone is already exploding against the floor, shreds skittering into the darkness.