Billion Dollar Lies

CHAPTER 1

Harper

The world loves a villain, but it worships the takedown.

Especially when the man in question is Adrian St. James—the tech king of New York, silver-tongued, scandal-proof, and terrifyingly composed. Until now.

My article went live three hours ago.

Three hours ago, I cracked the first brick in his empire.

That’s all it took. In that time, I’ve watched his empire bleed in real time—stock price dipping like a heartbeat under pressure, media outlets frothing at the mouth for their slice of the story, and Twitter igniting into a wildfire of think pieces, memes, and viral hashtags. #SaintOrSinner. #StJamesScandal. #ExposeTheEmpire.

His name is everywhere, tangled in the kind of digital chaos that makes PR firms weep and lawyers reach for Scotch. 

He’s being dissected, memed, ridiculed, worshipped, burned at the stake—all at once. My byline is stamped across every news aggregator. They’re calling it “career-defining,” “audacious,” “the exposé of the year.” And maybe it is.

But I’m not celebrating.

Not yet.

Because this is only Act One. The prelude. The spark before the blaze.

I know better than to assume Adrian St. James will go down quietly. Men like him don’t. They fight. They buy judges and break souls and turn the narrative into a weapon. He’ll claw his way out of this if he can. But not before I make damn sure there’s nothing left for him to cling to.

I know somewhere beneath the high of professional triumph, there’s something else brewing inside me. Not doubt, not exactly. More like... anticipation. A taut wire under my ribs, humming with the question I won’t let myself ask out loud:

What happens when the monster you’ve spent your whole life hunting looks you in the eye?

“Girl. You’re trending.”

Jessa’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. She’s standing at the doorway of my office, holding her phone like it’s the Ten Commandments. Her braids are coiled into a high crown, and she’s wearing a vintage “Ava DuVernay Is My Spirit Guide” tee that I lowkey want to steal.

“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, turning back to my laptop screen. The comments are a mix of applause and death threats. Predictable.

“Harper, you roasted the most powerful man in tech. That article was surgical. You cut clean through his reputation and left it bleeding on the pavement. Honestly? I’m in love with you.”

I smirk, even though my stomach’s in knots. “Buy me dinner first.”

Jessa flops into the chair across from me, tucking one leg underneath her. “Seriously, though. How does it feel? Taking down the King of Silicon Sin? You set the damn internet on fire. Gawker just called you ‘the journalist with the sharpest pen in New York.’ And Slate wants you on a panel. Tonight.”

I glance at the screen. At the screenshots of Adrian’s board meetings, whistleblower testimonies, expense reports that don’t add up. At his face frozen mid-sentence, expression unreadable—handsome in that cold, Armani-armored way that makes people underestimate the blade underneath.

“I don’t know yet, and I don’t care what Gawker says,” I mutter. “Not until I see how Adrian responds. Ask me then.”

She sobers. “You think he will?”

“He won’t just say something.” I shut my laptop with a soft click. “He’ll strategize. He’ll counter. He’ll turn this into a chess game, and if I’m not ten moves ahead, I lose.”

She drops into the chair across from me, tucking one leg underneath her. “So you think he’s guilty.”

“I think he’s powerful,” I say. “Which is sometimes the same thing.”

Jessa gives me a look. “Only you could make exposing a tech mogul sound like preparing for war.”

Because that’s exactly what it is.

And war requires precision. Preparation. And no delusions of safety.

I lean back, arms crossed. “You know what my first journalism professor told me?”

“Enlighten me.”

“He said: ‘Tell the truth, and the world will thank you. But lie too close to power, and the truth might get you killed.’”

Jessa exhales slowly. “Damn.”

“Yeah.” I run a hand over my puff, nerves buzzing under my skin. “And Adrian St. James? He doesn’t just have power. He is power.”

But I didn’t think it would happen this fast.

My email dings.

I glance at it, casually at first. Then I freeze.

From: Adrian St. James

Subject: Let’s talk.

Time: 6:03 PM

Jessa leans forward, reading upside down. “Oh hell no.”

I click the message open.

Miss Evans,

Since you’ve chosen to write about my business with such fearless enthusiasm, I’d like to invite you to see it firsthand.

One month. Unrestricted access. No filters. You’ll have your proof—or your retraction.

Let’s see if the truth is as sexy when it’s inconvenient.

—A. St. James

PS: I assume you prefer black coffee. No sugar, no cream. Just like your writing. Bitter.

My mouth goes dry.

Jessa’s voice is a whisper. “He’s inviting you in.”

“No,” I whisper back. “He’s challenging me.”

This isn’t an olive branch. It’s bait. And I’m the shark he thinks he can hook.

“Are you going to respond?” Jessa asks, watching my face closely.

I grin, typing back and sending the email, “Challenge accepted.” 

I close the laptop and stand, pulse racing beneath my skin.

“I’m going to pack.”