UNDER THE SPOTLIGHT Chapter 22

Mr. Doyle’s cold sneer was like an icy blade, stabbing straight down my spine. He sauntered into the office; under the lights, the shine on his bald scalp gleamed. His eyes locked on me like a starving wolf sizing up prey, dripping with naked mockery: “Ethan, I really didn’t expect the one sneaking around my office to be you. You’ve got some nerve.”

I clenched the USB drive in my fist, nails biting into my palm. The pain kept me barely clear-headed.

Leaning against his desk, toying with a cigar, he drawled, “I forgot a file. Came back, and hey—shadows moving in my office. I’ve been in this game a long time; it’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this. My first thought? A corporate spy slipped in. So before I walked in, I already called the cops.”

My stomach plunged, like I’d been dropped into an ice cellar.

Sirens seemed to wail in my ears. I forced myself to stay calm, mind racing. But his next line smashed through my composure like a sledgehammer: “Spit it out, kid. What are you here to steal? Company secrets? Or looking for some other kind of fun?”

No point pretending anymore. I went all in. My voice shook, but anger pushed it out. “Mr. Doyle, I know your contracts are dirty—money laundering and crimes attached. You think you can keep it buried forever? If you hadn’t tried to put Sara Nolan on the casting couch, I wouldn’t be here digging up leverage!”

He blinked, then burst out laughing—loud and crude, like a hawker bellowing in a street market. “Casting couch? Ethan, you really are a dumb kid. A whore’s got no heart; an actress has no loyalty. You’d risk all this for a woman? Worth it?”

He paused, eyes going mean. “But it looks like that slut actually caught feelings for you. You know that time you ruined my fun? I was going to have a few guys break your legs and toss you in the river. She begged me—said you were just a green rookie. Told me to let you off.”

A shock went through me, a bomb going off in my skull. Her coldness, her exhaustion—so that’s what was hiding behind it. I clenched my teeth; my throat felt like a rock was wedged in it. Rage and guilt tangled until I could barely breathe.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway then, like drumbeats hammering my chest. Mr. Doyle grinned, greasy and vile. “Well, that was fast. Ethan, I’ve got the best lawyers money can buy. Enjoy rotting in a cell.”

The door swung open. Several uniformed officers came in, their presence cold and hard, eyes sharp.

Mr. Doyle’s face flipped to a counterfeit smile as he pointed at me. “Officers, that’s him—the punk stealing our trade secrets! Please bring him to justice!”

My heart went to ash. My legs felt like lead. One thought thudded in my head: It’s over. I’m done. I’m just a junior assistant—how am I supposed to beat a fox like him?

And then, in the very moment I gave up, everything flipped.

Two officers stepped in, each clamping a hand on Mr. Doyle’s shoulders, swift and precise.

Their leader spoke, ice-cold: “Victor Doyle, we have evidence you’re involved in money laundering and illegal transactions. You need to come with us and cooperate with the investigation.”

Mr. Doyle’s face went sheet-white, like all the blood had drained out of him. He screeched, like a cat whose tail had just been stomped: “You’ve got the wrong guy! Me, launder money? On what grounds are you arresting me?!”

The officers didn’t blink. Without a word, they cuffed him. He thrashed, hysterical, veins bulging at his temples. “Ethan, you bastard! Just you wait—I won’t let you off!”

Dirty Deals