The headlines swept across every news channel like wildfire.
"The multi-billionaire Aron, widely known as the Trade King, has been arrested and is under investigation by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Sources have not confirmed the exact charges."
Screens flashed images of Aron living his lavish life: riding a jet ski, relaxing on a luxury cruise, smiling like a man untouchable.
Online, the voices of the public grew louder.
"They’re jealous of us young stars breaking free from the Matrix, that’s why they came for the King."
"I knew this trading thing was a scam."
"Really? Why is it that whenever they see a self-made young man, they immediately call it illegal?"
"You make it sound like it’s impossible for someone young to make money the right way."
"The Matrix came for our idol."
Comments like these flooded every post and article, each voice either defending him or tearing him apart.
At that moment, Aron sat in the SEC office, shock written all over his face.
When investigators presented a permit and his lawyer nodded, he unlocked his terminal without resistance. He had nothing to hide.
But the truth that appeared on his screen struck him like a hammer.
Eight suspicious trades had been placed under his account just yesterday, each one classified as insider trading.
He wanted to protest. Aron was never reckless. In all his years, the most trades he ever executed in a single day were two, and even that was rare.
Yet here it was: undeniable evidence of eight illegal transactions, all traced back to him.
To make matters worse, an email had been sent from his account. "This is my email, you can send it here, it’s secure."
Immediately after, those same trade signals were executed from his terminal.
Aron’s stomach sank. He didn’t need a lawyer to explain. He was finished.
There was no argument that could absolve him. He was the only one with access to his accounts.
"I’m innocent... I have no idea how this even happened," Aron muttered. His face remained calm, though inside his heart was in turmoil.
Losing billions or making trillions, his iron control over emotions had always set him apart. But this time was different.
Damian’s cousin, Mateo, tossed a folder across the table. "This is the information we obtained from your corporation."
Aron’s lawyer flipped through the pages, his expression darkening with each turn. When he finished, his shoulders sagged in defeat.
Aron took the folder himself, scanning the damning evidence.
It was airtight. Records showed that at the exact time those trades were placed, Aron was still logged into his system and had never left his office.
That was when a memory flickered. That day, his wife had been unusually affectionate, helping him choose his clothes, bringing him food, even pulling him into the office restroom for intimacy.
Then Mateo played a video recording. Aron’s eyes narrowed. On-screen, there he was, sitting at his desk and making trades at the exact incriminating hour. Newest update provided by novel(ꜰ)ire.net
But something was off.
The Aron in the video wore the same clothes his wife had picked for him a week earlier during her romantic gesture.
And in this footage, she was nowhere to be seen.
His heart pounded. Even a fool could piece the truth together.
Aron refused to believe it. His wife? No. She had no reason.
He had given her everything, access to joint accounts, freedom to spend as she wished, full support for her modeling career. He even embraced her family as his own. How could she...?
The courtroom’s judgment echoed like a death sentence.
"For attempting to profit through illegal insider trading, and for refusing to name accomplices, this court hereby revokes Aron’s trading license permanently.
He is further fined twelve point five billion dollars(12.5 billion), payable within three days’ time."
The gavel struck. Court adjourned.
Aron’s expression remained impassive, but inside, his thoughts churned violently.
(Rihanna would never betray me...)
As he was escorted out, reporters swarmed.
"Mr. Aron, are the rumors true?"
"Are you really guilty of insider trading?"
"Say something, Mr. Aron!"
He walked on silently, mind far away, until the car door shut behind him.
"As you can all see," one anchor declared, "this may be the fall of a promising young king."
Back at his mansion, the staff bowed, their gazes no longer filled with admiration but with doubt and pity.
Aron ignored them, settling calmly in the parlor. "Is my wife back yet?"
He nodded, sinking back into thought.
Moments later, men in suits entered, his financial managers. Aron had summoned them himself.
"Mr. Aron, you asked for us."
"Yes. The court demands twelve point five billion dollars(12.5 billion). Wire it to them before the day ends."
To ordinary people, a million dollars was beyond a lifetime. Twelve point five billion(12.5 billion) was unimaginable.
But to Aron, even stripped of his license, poverty was still a distant myth.
His fortune alone could sustain thirty generations without struggle. Money was nothing but numbers.
Yet his accountants hesitated, exchanging uneasy glances.
For the first time that day, Aron’s brow furrowed. "What’s the problem?"
"Sir... Mrs. Aron transferred all the funds out of your accounts."
Aron’s eyes sharpened. "Impossible. Any amount above a hundred million requires both our consent."
One of them stammered, showing him a message. "You gave us consent. See?" It was his voice, his words.
They produced signed documents too, authorization in his own handwriting. Aron’s blood ran cold. He remembered last night, being drunk, his wife caressing him, pressing papers into his hand.
The accountants lowered their heads. "We even tried calling you to confirm, but you didn’t answer."
Aron sat still, face calm, but his body betrayed him. He trembled uncontrollably.
(It’s a lie. Rihanna could never betray me. This has to be a dream...)
He pinched his arm. The pain was real.
"You may leave," he said quietly.
They placed a file on the table before going. "This is the full account statement. In total, three point eight trillion dollars(3.8 Trillion) was transferred out."
The words landed like a blade through his chest.
His phone buzzed. A message from Damian. Aron opened it.
Attached were videos.
He tapped the first one. His wife and Damian, tangled together. Her voice loud, breathless, moaning Damian’s name.
His rival’s hands were on her body, his mouth on her skin.
She clung to him with passion and hunger.
Video after video played. Her laughing, kissing, grinding.
Her on her knees, eyes glazed with desire as she serviced Damian.
Clip after clip, each worse than the last.
Aron’s trembling stopped. He sat still, watching every second calmly, from beginning to end.
A tear involuntarily slipped down his cheek.