Chapter 3 - The Digital Wolves
By four o’clock that afternoon, Courtroom 402 had ceased to be a private family tragedy and had transformed into an internet sensation.
The Chicago family court system was public record, and while minor children’s names were redacted from official transcripts, high-profile billionaire divorces were blood in the water for tabloid journalists. But this time, the leak had not come from the courthouse press pool.
It came from Savannah Blake.
Elena’s tiny two-bedroom apartment on 47th Street smelled of simmering tomato sauce and cheap pine floor cleaner. The radiators hissed and clanked against the peeling plaster walls, throwing off an uneven, suffocating heat. In the small living room, Ethan and Mason were curled up together on a worn floral couch, watching an old animated movie on Elena’s twenty-four-inch television.
In the narrow kitchen, Elena—a fiery thirty-five-year-old nurse with dark curls tied up in a messy bun—slammed her phone down onto the laminate countertop.
“You need to look at this,” Elena said, her voice shaking with rage. “Look at what this little viper just posted.”
Olivia was stirring a pot of pasta on the stove. She wiped her hands on a dish towel and took the phone.
It was Savannah Blake’s Instagram account. Savannah had 1.4 million followers. An hour ago, she had uploaded a three-minute video filmed inside the leather-lined back seat of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes Maybach.
In the video, Savannah was wearing oversized designer sunglasses, dabbed delicately at the corner of her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Her voice was breathy, fragile, perfectly tuned to evoke sympathy.
*“I’m speaking out because I can’t stay silent anymore,”* Savannah said into the camera, her lip trembling with practiced perfection. *“Today in court, something truly terrifying happened. As many of you know, my partner, Jonathan Reed, has been fighting an uphill battle to protect his two beautiful sons from an environment of severe emotional neglect. But today, his ex-wife’s legal team utilized what several digital forensic experts believe to be AI-generated voice cloning to fabricate horrifying, out-of-context audio clips.”*
Olivia stared at the screen, her stomach dropping into a bottomless pit.
*AI-generated voice cloning.*
*“Jonathan is a gentle, philanthropic soul who has built schools and funded pediatric wings across this city,”* Savannah continued, a single tear spilling dramatically down her cheek. *“To see his own children weaponized against him using manipulated deepfake technology... it breaks my heart. We are currently filing emergency federal injunctions to have these digital fabrications forensically audited. Please keep our family in your prayers while we navigate this coordinated smear campaign.”*
Olivia scrolled down to the comments. They were moving so fast the screen blurred.
*“Omg Jonathan is so sweet, I can’t believe that bitter ex would do this!”*
*“Deepfakes are getting terrifying. Poor Savannah!”*
*“She’s just after his billions. Women like her make real victims look bad.”*
*“Look at her old photos, she looks completely unhinged. I hope Jonathan gets the kids back!”*
“It already has eighty thousand likes,” Elena spat, grabbing a wooden spoon from the counter. “Her management agency is pushing it to TikTok right now. People are making stitch videos analyzing your voice from that old charity interview you did four years ago, claiming you sound ‘narcissistic.’”
Olivia set the phone down. Her hand was steady now. The sheer absurdity of it—the shameless, theatrical cruelty—had cauterized her fear.
“Let them post,” Olivia said quietly.
Elena blinked, staring at her cousin. “Olivia, they are poisoning the entire public narrative! Jonathan is going to use this PR storm to file an appeal before the ink on Judge Harrison’s order is dry!”
“He can file whatever he wants,” Olivia replied, turning back to the stove. “Judge Harrison didn’t rule based on an Instagram comment section. He ruled based on Mason walking up to his bench with a drive that Jonathan’s own security protocols encrypted with the Reed Enterprises corporate digital signature. Sarah Jenkins told me the court technician verified the file metadata before the judge even finished the hearing. Those files were created on Jonathan’s office computer three weeks ago. You can’t deepfake a timestamped internal server hash.”
Elena let out a breath, leaning against the counter. “You’ve gotten stronger, Liv.”
Olivia looked over at the living room. Ethan was laughing softly at something on the television, his head resting against his brother’s shoulder. For nine months, she had lived in terror of Jonathan’s voice, Jonathan’s money, Jonathan’s influence. She had believed that if she just stayed small enough, polite enough, quiet enough, he might show mercy.
She knew better now. Predators did not recognize mercy. They only recognized walls they could not break.
Suddenly, a loud knock rattled the apartment door.
Ethan and Mason instantly stiffened on the couch, the movie forgotten. Mason’s eyes darted toward the hallway, wide with immediate terror.
“Stay there,” Olivia told the boys, her voice calm and firm.
She walked down the narrow hallway, Elena following close behind with a heavy cast-iron skillet in her right hand. Olivia checked the peephole.
Standing outside in the dimly lit, carpeted hallway of the apartment building was not a process server or a sheriff’s deputy.
It was an older man in a charcoal wool coat, carrying an old-fashioned leather briefcase. He had thick silver hair, wire-rimmed bifocals, and a deep scar running along the edge of his left jawline.
Olivia cracked the door open three inches, leaving the heavy brass chain engaged. “Can I help you?”
The man did not try to push the door. He took one step back, giving her space, and reached into his interior coat pocket. He produced a crisp white business card and slid it through the gap.
“Mrs. Carter,” the man said. His voice was raspy, deep, and measured. “My name is Arthur Vance. For eleven years, I served as the Chief Financial Officer of Reed Development Corporation.”
Olivia froze. She recognized the name. Arthur Vance had been Jonathan’s right hand during the construction of the riverfront towers. And then, four years ago, Vance had abruptly vanished from the company. The official press release had stated he retired due to “health complications,” but the society rumors had whispered about an ugly, quiet non-disclosure agreement.
“Jonathan fired you,” Olivia said through the door.
“Jonathan attempted to destroy me,” Vance corrected quietly. “He framed me for a thirty-million-dollar tax discrepancy to cover an embezzlement scheme he ran through his private Swiss foundation. I spent three years fighting federal indictments before every single charge was dropped with prejudice.”
Vance leaned in slightly, his grey eyes piercing through the narrow opening.
“Your son didn’t just copy Jonathan’s personal audio files onto that silver flash drive, Mrs. Carter,” Vance said. “The folder labeled *ARCHIVE_AUTO_SYNC* was linked to Jonathan’s secure secondary cloud backup. It pulled down the encrypted balance sheets for the shell companies Jonathan used to hide three hundred and eighty million dollars from your divorce proceedings.”
Olivia’s heart gave a heavy, violent thud.
“Why are you here, Mr. Vance?”
Vance smiled—a cold, wintry expression that carried the weight of a man who had waited years for retribution.
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“Because, Mrs. Carter,” Vance replied, “Jonathan’s lawyers are preparing an emergency motion to impound that flash drive under trade-secret protection laws at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If they succeed, those files will be sealed forever. But if we decrypt them tonight... your ex-husband won’t just lose his children. He will lose his freedom.”
***
