Pamela lay sprawled on the bed, the damp weight of her arm stuck to her forehead mirroring the sluggishness in her mind. A shrill scream ripped her from her thoughts – the rude awakening of her alarm clock. She fumbled over to the bedside table, silencing the insistent clamour.
Despite the harsh digital readout, she instinctively glanced at the analog clock on the wall. 7:01 am. With a groan, she swung her legs over the edge, only to snag her phone with her foot. It clattered to the floor with a dramatic thud.
"Great," she muttered, retrieving the phone and shoving it into her pocket. As she shuffled towards the kitchen, the persistent hum of the television drifted from the living room. Deciding to silence it before grabbing a coffee, she reached for the remote.
Just as her finger hovered over the power button, a headline flashed across the screen: "Billionaire's Surprise Engagement... Without a Ring?" Images of a radiant Elizabeth intertwined with a brooding Lord Cyprian filled the screen.
Pamela's curiosity piqued. She watched for a moment, then with a sigh, switched off the television. The remote clattered back onto the table, startling a yowl from her cat, who was sprawled contentedly nearby. Chuckling, she set about filling her food dish, rewarded with a rumbling purr.
As she reached for the kettle, her phone buzzed. Glancing at the caller ID, she recognised Mr. Brown's number. Straightening up, she answered, a polite, "Good morning, Mr. Brown," escaping her lips.
"Morning, Pamela," came his gravelly response, laced with a hint of agitation. "Did you manage to speak with Elizabeth yet?"
Pamela hesitated. "Not yet, sir. I think she'll sleep in until about eleven." She said, excluding the part that she was drunk dead.
A heavy sigh travelled down the line. "Right. Well, I saw the news and I can't get to her. I can't wait around until then. Find out what happened."
Unease prickled at Pamela's skin. Was it her place to divulge such private information? She needed more context herself. "Sir, I'm not sure-"
"Just get me all the information you can find on this Lord Cyprian," Mr. Brown interrupted, his voice firm. "Everything. Especially the buried stories."
"Alright, but-"
The call ended abruptly. Pamela stared at the dead phone, her coffee forgotten. With a sigh, she decided to forgo the caffeine for now. Instead, she grabbed a bottle of water and headed towards her computer.
"Let's see what skeletons you have in your closet, Lord Cyprian," she muttered, settling into her chair and pulling up a search engine.
Minutes flew by as she delved into the digital abyss. What began as a surface-level search revealed a hidden world. The single'deceased' wife Elizabeth had believed in was a figment of her imagination. He had been married twice.
Pamela delved deeper, unearthing a news article about a tragic car accident that claimed Lord Cyprian's parents and relatives when he was just sixteen. The article mentioned a younger cousin, Liberty O'Girri, thrust into his care at a tender age.
Curiosity gnawed at Pamela. Clicking on an old photo, she was surprised. The platinum-blonde Lord Cyprian she'd seen plastered across the news was a fabrication. This younger version sported a mop of mousy brown hair, much like Elizabeth's, framing a face that radiated an unsettling serenity. It was a stark contrast to the calculating mask she'd seen on television.
She leaned back in her chair, a shiver crawling down her spine. The news of the engagement was just the tip of the iceberg, and Pamela, with a growing sense of trepidation, knew she was hooked.
She frowned as she scrolled through the articles again. Everything seemed a little too perfect. Lord Cyprian had inherited a vast fortune, but according to online records, his business acumen had propelled O'Girri Enterprises to stratospheric heights. A 34% profit increase in his first year? And a ridiculous 79% the year after? It smacked of fabrication.
"There's no way," she muttered, clenching her jaw. A company that size, with its fingers in countless pies, wouldn't experience such a meteoric rise under the leadership of a teenager, no matter how brilliant. Genius didn't explain away such an anomaly.
With renewed determination, she Bypassed the usual search engines, venturing into the darker corners of the internet. Here, information wasn't readily available; it was guarded by firewalls and encrypted codes. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, a symphony of clicks and taps as she hacked her way through digital barriers.
The rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the keyboard echoed in the silent room as she navigated firewalls and cracked encryptions. It was a tense ballet, a dance with unseen forces protecting whatever Lord Cyprian wished to keep buried. Finally, after a gruelling thirty-seven minutes, a breakthrough. An article from an African nation flickered onto the screen.
Pamela's eyes narrowed as she saw the upload and deletion timestamps of the article– a mere minute apart. This was no coincidence. She couldn't download the article, but the precious sixty seconds it remained visible were enough. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, capturing screenshots with her phone like a paparazzo chasing a celebrity.
The article spoke of a murder investigation involving a Nigerian model and a certain billionaire playboy. The accompanying photos, grainy and pixelated, showed a younger Cyprian, a shadow of the polished man splashed across the gossip mags.
This was a revelation. Everything she'd read online claimed Cyprian had only visited two countries – Japan and the US. This article, along with the photos, hinted at a far more chequered past.
A cold dread pooled in her stomach as she continued her search. Another article materialized, this time from the Philippines. The headline blared: "Billionaire Playboy in a Room with Five Dead Girls." Before Pamela could absorb the details, the article vanished, consumed by the digital abyss. Five seconds. That was all she had.
Frustration gnawed at her, but she pushed on. Each revelation chipped away at the carefully constructed facade, revealing a darkness Pamela had only suspected. Then, the most disturbing discovery yet. An article from Japan, deleted within seconds of upload, painted a picture of a monster.
"32-year-old Billionaire Married to 48 Wives Across Continents – All Dead Under Mysterious Circumstances."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Her fingers trembled as she captured a screenshot before the article too disappeared. And then, a new threat emerged. An upload bar flickered on the screen, a digital predator sniffing out her trail.
"Oh, no you don't," she hissed, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She fought back the intrusion with practised ease, but another, and another, followed in quick succession. It was a relentless assault.
Thinking fast, she wiped her digital footprint, severing any connection between her and the incriminating information. With a finality that sent a pang of regret through her, she triggered the computer's self-destruct sequence. A single, brilliant flash, and then silence.
Pamela slumped back in her chair, the room heavy with the aftermath. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, disgust, a morbid sense of accomplishment – they all swirled within her.
"Wow," she finally breathed, reaching for the bottle of water beside her and draining it in one long gulp. The thrill of the digital chase lingered, but the weight of her discoveries settled heavily upon her. She'd found dirt, alright. But had she stumbled upon something far more dangerous?