The Eye of the Storm

I woke up with a pounding headache, the weight of the past few days weighing heavily on my mind. My mouth was dry, my body sluggish—as if I'd been drowning in whiskey, though I hadn't touched a drop. The real hangover wasn't alcohol. It was rage.

A faint commotion drifted in from outside. I shoved the curtains aside, and my stomach dropped.

A sea of reporters and photographers had gathered at the gates of my mansion, their cameras flashing nonstop, even from this distance. It was like looking at a swarm of locusts, hungry for any information they could devour.

"Shit," I muttered, letting the curtain drop.

My jaw clenched as I made my way downstairs, the house feeling so quiet despite the growing commotion outside.

Pouring myself a much-needed cup of coffee, I turned on the TV in the kitchen. Every news channel seemed to be running the story:

"TECH TYCOON LIAM ASHTON ACCUSES WIFE OF INFIDELITY."