All Chapters of Whisked Away : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Ethan’s PR machine worked with the precision of a scalpel. Within twenty-four hours of Amara’s interview, glossy images began circulating across every social feed: Ethan holding Noah’s hand while walking through Central Park, Ethan crouching down to tie his son’s shoelace, Ethan kissing Noah’s forehead at the doorstep of an expensive private school.The captions were brutal in their simplicity:“A father’s love speaks louder than accusations.”“Despite the noise, he chooses his child first.”The world ate it up.Morning talk shows debated the “he said, she said.” Some hosts tilted toward empathy for Amara, but more clung to the narrative of a misunderstood man trying to shield his child from a bitter ex-lover.The worst came when a tabloid splashed a headline across its cover:“Is Amara Weaponizing Her Son?”That night, Amara opened her email to find a folder waiting for her. No sender, no signature, just a subject line: A reminder.Inside were photos. Old ones. Intimate ones. Shots o

The days that followed were a study in contradictions.To the outside world, Ethan looked untouchable, polished articles, glowing features, subtle digs at Amara’s “fragile composure.” To Amara, it felt like living in quicksand: the harder she tried to stay calm, the deeper she felt pulled into the narrative he’d spun.But beneath the surface, something had shifted.Late one night, Luca’s lead investigator, Julian, arrived at their penthouse. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in two days, but his eyes gleamed.“I’ve found something,” he said, sliding a folder across the table.Inside was a series of financial records, public filings, tucked away, but inconsistent. Ethan had built his empire on the story of being flawless, transparent, ethical. Yet buried in the documents was a property deal that didn’t add up: a donation made to a foundation that didn’t seem to exist anymore, land acquired at a suspiciously low price through intermediaries.“Nothing explosive yet,” Julian said, “bu

The first article wasn’t on the front page.It appeared in a mid-tier business magazine, tucked between stock market analysis and a feature on renewable tech. The headline was innocuous enough:“Ethan: Visionary or Opportunist?”The tone was cautious, not accusatory, but it asked the right questions. It cited discrepancies in land acquisitions, subtle inconsistencies in financial reports, and a string of mysteriously dissolved shell companies.For the average reader, it was nothing. For those who lived and breathed investments, it was a spark.The journalist, Her name was Mara Klein, a sharp-eyed investigative reporter with a reputation for finding stories where no one else looked. She wasn’t a headline chaser, she was a truth digger.And she had one advantage: she didn’t buy into the mythology of Ethan. She saw the glossy speeches and spotless suits for what they were, armor. Armor always meant there was something worth hiding.She began making calls. Quietly. Carefully. And though d

Amara had always thought strength meant standing tall against storms. But this storm was invisible, whispers, headlines, shadows that slithered around her even in the most glamorous rooms.The second text came at 2:17 a.m.“Do you ever wonder if he tells you everything? Check his past before he erases it.”She jolted awake, the glow of her phone searing the dark. Her heart hammered so loud it drowned out the silence of the penthouse. Luca lay asleep beside her, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. She studied him in the dark, her anchor, her love.But the text gnawed at her.It wasn’t about truth. It was about corrosion. Ethan was trying to turn suspicion into poison, one drop at a time.The next day, Luca stood before a wall of flashing cameras, trying to fight back with logic.“These so-called leaks are fabricated. Entirely. I have served on boards, yes, but never”“Then how do you explain the timestamped emails, Mr. Luca?” a reporter barked.Another shouted: “Do you deny

The name Geneva would not leave Amara’s mind. It repeated like a poisoned echo, drowning out everything else Luca had said, everything she wanted to believe about him.That night, when Luca finally fell asleep, she crept out of bed and padded barefoot into his office. The city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long silver streaks across his desk.She sat down at his computer, hands trembling as she opened the search bar. Luca’s passwords had always been a mystery to her, but she remembered something, his mother’s birthday. She tried it. Access denied. She tried another variation. Then another.On the fourth attempt, the screen blinked open.Her heart stuttered.Emails, financial files, encrypted attachments. Her eyes scanned until she saw it, folders labeled GENEVA 2018.Her stomach knotted. She hesitated, hovered, then clicked.Inside were documents in languages she didn’t recognize, scanned contracts, and a string of wire transfers. And at the center of it