Trash My Promise Ring? I'll Crash Your Team

Chapter 5 The Grandest Backfire

At 8 PM, the awards gala buzzed with anticipation. Every click of the cameras fused into an excited rhythm, capturing the evening's magic.

Mark marched onto the main stage, exuding confidence in a tailored suit, the gleaming golden trophy for his 5th championship triumph soaring triumphantly above his head. The crowd responded with a deafening ovation.

In the front row, Chloe's backless gown sparkled under the lights as she gazed at the trophy, her pride unmistakable.

"This victory belongs to my team," Mark proclaimed, his voice steady into the microphone. "I also want to introduce someone special tonight. Chloe Hill, our PR director. Next week, she'll be launching a revolutionary racing tech company."

Instantly, the spotlight found Chloe. She stood, waving animatedly at the throng of cameras.

The colossal screen flickered to life, ready to unveil a "Champion's Retrospective" video.

But at 8:30, the speakers deviated from the anticipated engine roars to a rather shocking soundtrack, flesh hitting flesh, and breathy moans.

"Earlier downstairs, were you worried she'd eavesdrop?" Chloe's voice questioned.

"And if she did? No biggie," Mark chuckled. "She's just a wallflower. Once I've squeezed what I need from her, it's goodbye. Why bother with someone who's glued to a computer all day?"

The applause vanished. Silence reigned.

Broadcasted at a groundbreaking volume, the conversation echoed, reaching global audiences in real-time.

Mark turned abruptly.

The screen betrayed him, not a single racecar in sight. Instead, a pristine surveillance clip played.

The footage showed Mark clutching Chloe by the waist, pinning her against the control room console. Chloe, unabashed, even had her stiletto resting next to the keyboard.

The monitor behind them flickered to life, brimming with the intricate code I had crafted through endless nights devoid of sleep.

Chaos erupted instantly within the crowd.

In a swift motion, Smith sprang up, accidentally overturning a glass of red wine. The crimson liquid spread across the floor like wildfire.

Sensing a story, reporters surged forward with cameras at the ready.

"Shut it down! Kill the power now!" Mark yelled frantically at the backstage crew before rushing towards the control panel to shut it off himself.

But it was futile. Backstage access was completely sealed off.

The display blinked, switching to a comparison chart.

On the left appeared Chloe's company's slideshow. On the right, my computer's original video and data. Line by line, they matched in perfect symmetry.

A bold red stamp emerged in the screen's middle: Corporate Espionage Ban by International Court.

The spotlight remained harshly on Chloe. A swarm of cameras zeroed in on her.

"Stop filming! Step back!"

Chloe shouted, attempting to dash toward the exit. In her haste, she tripped on her gown's hem, crashing onto the carpet.

No one extended a hand. Flashbulbs furiously illuminated her fall.

Her pride, a once-stunning designer dress, now lay torn. Her face, already bruised from an earlier incident, further injured upon impact. Tears wove through ruined makeup, leaving a chaotic blur on her face. Two security guards rushed over, seizing her roughly and dragging her from the hall.

Mark stood, paralyzed, on the stage.

Smith, with a group of irate investors, stormed up and hurled a microphone at Mark's feet.

"Is this your idea of intuition? Sneaking around using stolen code to scam money from us?" Smith yelled, pointing aggressively at Mark's face. "You're done for! Brace yourself for a court call!"

Microphones swarmed toward Mark in a frenzy.

The clamorous sea of questions and the relentless clicking of cameras struck him with the force of a tsunami.

His hands quivered uncontrollably as he suddenly reached into his pocket.

His fingers brushed against the small black box. The one I had given him before his departure.

"This will be a big surprise," my voice rang in his mind.

Mark's eyes sparkled with hope. He gripped it tightly, believing it was his saving grace for the PR nightmare I had warned about.

Amid the dazzling strobe of flashbulbs, he flipped open the box with urgency.

No data backup awaited him. No strategic PR release.

Instead, he found only a folded white sheet inside, Divorce Agreement.