Chapter 165
Madison
I blinked, trying to process his words through my post–orgasmic haze. “What? Financial fraud?”
“We don’t have time for explanations,” Alexander said, tossing his shirt over his head. His muscles flexed as he buttoned it with practiced efficiency. “Get dressed. Now.”
The urgency in his voice snapped me into action. I scrambled off the bed and headed to the closet, where some of my clothes hung alongside his designer suits.
I quickly selected a charcoal pencil skirt and cream blouse, which were professional enough for
whatever crisis awaited us.
“Faster,” he barked, already fully dressed and checking his phone again. His jaw clenched tighter with each swipe of his thumb.
I hurried into the bathroom to fix my appearance, wincing at my reflection. My hair was a tangled mess, my lips swollen, and faint red marks dotted my neck where Alexander had gotten carried away. I quickly applied concealer to the most visible marks and pulled my hair into a tight bun.
When I emerged, Alexander was pacing by the door, keys in hand.
“Let’s go,” he said, not waiting for a response before striding toward the elevator.
I grabbed my purse and followed, my heels clicking against the marble floor as I jogged to keep up. The ride down to the garage was tense and silent, Alexander’s fingers drumming against his thigh as he stared at the descending numbers.
Once in his car, he peeled out of the parking garage with a screech of tires. I clutched the door handle as he weaved through traffic with dangerous precision. His jaw was set in a hard line, the muscles twitching as he clenched his teeth. I’d never seen him this tense before.
“The market closed at four,” I said, checking the time on my phone. “How could the stocks be falling
now?”
Alexander shot me a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. “After–hours trading,” he explained, his voice controlled despite the situation. “The regular market closes at four, but trading continues until eight PM in the after–hours market. Volume is lower, but the impact can be significant, especially with news like this.”
He accelerated through a yellow light, making me press back into the leather seat.
“And it’s not just after–hours trading,” he continued. “Futures contracts are trading too. They’re basically bets on where the market will open tomorrow. Right now, those futures are predicting a
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bloodbath when the bell rings in the morning.”
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I pulled out my phone and started searching for news about Knight Industries. The headlines made my stomach drop.
“All of your companies are down,” I said, scrolling through the financial data. “Knight Industries is down 22%, but some of your smaller subsidiaries are getting hit even harder. MediKnight is down 38 %, and Knight Tech Ventures is down nearly 45%.”
“The small caps always get hit hardest,” Alexander muttered, taking a sharp turn that had me gripping the door handle again. “Less liquidity, easier to panic–sell.”
“There are articles everywhere,” I said, my voice rising as I scrolled through the news.
“What are they saying specifically?” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
I skimmed the articles, my heart racing faster with each headline. “They’re alleging financial manipulation, falsified quarterly reports… One claims you’ve been hiding profits in offshore accounts to avoid taxes. Another says you’ve been inflating revenue numbers to boost stock prices before major sell–offs by executives.”
“Bullshit,” he spat, slamming his hand against the steering wheel. “All of it. Complete fabrications.”
“There’s more,” I said, my voice dropping. “They’re claiming to have documents… internal memos, emails between you and the CFO discussing ways to ‘cook the books.“”
Alexander’s laugh was harsh and humorless. “Forged. Has to be.
“Who would do this?” I asked, looking up from my phone.
Alexander’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his profile sharp in the glow of passing streetlights.” Take your pick. The list of suspects is longer than my dick.”
Despite the situation, I snorted at his crude comparison.
“What?” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “It’s a very long list.”
“I’m sure it is, Mr. Knight.”
His expression darkened again as he accelerated through an intersection. “There are at least five major competitors who’d love to see Knight Industries take a hit. Not to mention hedge funds who’ve been shorting our stock for months.”
“Shorting?”
“Betting against us. They make money when our stock price falls.” He checked his mirrors and changed lanes aggressively. “Then there are activist investors who think I’m too controlling. Former
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employees with grudges. Business partners who felt cheated. Ex–girlfriends.”
I raised an eyebrow at that last one.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Some women don’t take rejection well.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I muttered.
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He shot me a look. “These allegations are complete bullshit, but they’re effective. Someone sends anonymous ‘tips‘ to financial journalists, claims to have evidence of wrongdoing, and suddenly
everyone’s selling first and asking questions later.”
“But they need actual evidence, right? They can’t just publish accusations.‘
Alexander laughed bitterly. “Welcome to financial journalism in the digital age. They don’t need proof, just ‘sources familiar with the matter‘ or ‘documents reviewed by our reporters.‘ By the time we prove it’s all lies, the damage is done.”
I scrolled through more articles, each headline worse than the last. “This is insane. They’re saying you personally authorized fake transactions to inflate quarterly earnings.”
“Of course they are.” His voice was tight with anger. “That’s the beauty of it. Make the accusations specific enough to seem credible but vague enough that they’re hard to disprove quickly.”
“How long will it take to get the share prices back up?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around the
scale of the disaster.
Alexander was quiet for a moment, calculating. “Some might recover as soon as tomorrow if we handle this perfectly. Others could take days or weeks.” He paused, his expression grim. “A few might take years to fully recover, especially if the SEC decides to launch a formal investigation.”
“Years?” I echoed, horrified.
“Markets run on confidence. Once that’s shaken, it takes time to rebuild.”
We pulled into the underground parking, the security guard waving us through with unusual urgency. Alexander parked haphazardly across two spaces and was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seatbelt.
I hurried after him, my heels clicking on the concrete. The elevator ride was tense, Alexander repeatedly jabbing the button for the executive floor as if that would make it move faster.
“Who’s waiting for us?” I asked.
“Crisis management team. Legal. PR. The CFO, Probably half the board by now.”
When the doors opened, the usual quiet of the executive floor was gone, replaced by frantic energy.
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People rushed between conference rooms, phones rang constantly, and voices were raised in adjacent offices.
G Gregory Ellington Author
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.
