The Thorne Heiress Unveiling Shadow novel Chapter 40

Just as Richard Sutton was wrapping up his desperate, unconvincing speech with a weak plea for investor confidence, a change rippled through the small, stuffy conference room. A few reporters in the back began to look down at their phones, their eyes widening. A low, excited murmur started to spread like wildfire.

"What is it?" one journalist whispered to another.

"Oracle just dropped a new post," came the hushed reply. "Right now. It's about him."

The name "Oracle" was like a shot of adrenaline to the room of jaded financial reporters. In an instant, every single person was looking at their phone, their attention completely stolen from the man at the podium. The sound of frantic scrolling filled the room.

Richard Sutton paused, confused by the sudden shift in the room's energy. "Uh, as I was saying, the future of urban living..."

His voice trailed off as the first question was shouted from the back of the room. It was not about his new project.

"Mr. Sutton!" a reporter from the Wall Street Journal called out, her eyes glued to her phone. "Oracle's new post, titled 'An Autopsy of a Failed Enterprise,' claims your company is hiding over fifty million dollars in toxic debt through a series of offshore shell corporations. Is this true?"

Richard's face went white. "That's... that's an unsubstantiated, anonymous blog post! I will not dignify that with a response."

"Oracle has provided the registration numbers for three shell corporations in the Bahamas linked to your wife's maiden name!" another reporter shouted. "Are you denying that you are the beneficial owner?"

"Based on their current burn rate, their outstanding liabilities, and the covenants on their newly exposed debt, I predict the Sutton Development Group will file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy on or before October 26th."

The date was three weeks away.

The precision of the prediction was terrifying. It wasn't a guess; it was a death sentence, delivered with the cold certainty of a mathematician solving an equation.

At the podium, Richard Sutton stood speechless, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror. He was being publicly dissected, his entire life's work exposed as a house of cards on live television by an anonymous, all-knowing ghost. The cameras flashed, capturing his humiliation for the entire world to see. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was over.