The Surrogate He Discarded

”Boss... bad news.”

It was Jack, Kristoff’s executive assistant.

”You’re trending on the internet again,” he said cautiously as he handed him a tablet. ”Not just you—Ms. Isobel Lancey is, too.”

Kristoff spared him a brief glance before picking up the tablet.

Countless photos from the charity event flooded the screen, accompanied by thousands of comments, theories, and speculative headlines. He scrolled without expression until one particular post caught his attention.

His thumb stopped.

Without a word, he took a screenshot.

Jack, who had been pretending not to look, nearly choked.

Since when did his boss care about internet gossip?

Normally, the moment Jack mentioned anything remotely related to social media, Kristoff would cut him off before he could finish.

”Say no more.”

That was all he ever needed to say.

But today... Kristoff wasn’t just looking at the photos.

He was reading the comments. One after another.

His brows gradually drew together, the lines between them deepening with every swipe. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, making Jack instinctively straighten his posture.

Yet Kristoff continued scrolling, occasionally stopping to save another screenshot.

Finally, he set the tablet down.

”Have every photo and comment taken down within the hour.”

”Right away, Boss.”

Jack didn’t waste another second. He hurried out of the CEO’s office, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The room fell into silence.

Kristoff opened his gallery and studied the screenshots he had saved.

The first was the group photo.

Everyone else was facing the camera, but both he and Isobel were looking down at Alexander, completely unaware the moment had been captured.

The second photo was taken only a heartbeat later.

This time, he and Isobel were both looking toward the camera while Alexander clung tightly to Isobel’s sleeve, gazing up at her with complete trust. The people in the background had faded into little more than blurred silhouettes.

Kristoff cropped both images, removing everyone else until only three people remained in the frame.

Him, Isobel and Alexander.

His thumb paused over the third photo.

It was a candid shot.

Isobel was holding Alexander in her arms, her head slightly upturned as she looked at Kristoff.

It was taken the moment after he had placed Alexander into her embrace.

No posed smiles. No awareness of the camera.

Just... a fleeting moment frozen in time.

Kristoff stared at it for a long while.

Then, almost unconsciously, his fingertip drifted across the screen, stopping just above Isobel’s face.

A bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

”I’m losing my mind,” he murmured.

His voice was barely audible in the empty office.

”I can’t let go, Isobel.”

...

At the Foster Mansion in Aurelian Village, the silence of Morgan’s study was broken by the persistent chime of incoming notifications.

His phone screen lit up repeatedly.

Alert from Mythos.

His AI assistant had detected an unusual spike in online activity involving his name.

Morgan picked up his phone.

”Mythos.”

The AI responded immediately. A holographic image that looked similar Morgan projected from Morgan’s cell phone appeared

”Boss, your name has been mentioned one hundred and twelve times across multiple social media platforms. Most of the references are under viral posts featuring Isobel Lancey.”

”Give me the summary.”

Within seconds, the scattered information was distilled into a concise report. As images and comments appeared on the holographic display above his desk, Mythos narrated the key points.

”How coincidental it was for Kristoff and Isobel to meet at the orphanage at the same day. Is it fate playing a trick on them?” Morgan spoke his thoughts out loud.

In the morning, Isobel asked permission to visit the orphanage and he had nodded. Of course, he did not have the right to say NO as it was a weekend and Isobel was off duty.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, studying the photographs one by one. His gaze lingered on one particular image.

”Sometimes fate has a peculiar sense of humor.”

”Statistically speaking, Boss,” Mythos replied in its calm mechanical voice, ”it is a coincidence.”

A faint smile tugged at Morgan’s lips.

”So even you don’t believe in fate.”

”I operate on data and probabilities, not beliefs.”

Morgan let out a soft chuckle before his expression turned serious again.

”Find out who’s driving the attacks against Isobel.”

The holographic display shifted.

Thousands of comments were filtered, categorized, and traced within moments. User profiles, hashtags, and coordinated posting patterns flashed across the screen.

”Primary source identified,” Mythos reported. ”The majority of hostile engagement originated from the Charlotte Harris Fan Club and its affiliated accounts. Several coordinated fan pages are amplifying negative narratives targeting Isobel Lancey.”

”Charlotte...”

Morgan’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the wooden desk.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the stream of carefully curated hate comments scrolling across the display.

”So childish.”

He looked up at the hologram.

”Can you remove every defamatory post and comment targeting Isobel?”

There was a brief pause before Mythos answered.

”Certainly, Boss.”

The AI’s voice carried the faintest trace of satisfaction.

”Please watch me do it. I just needed.”

Lines of code raced across the holographic display as Mythos launched a coordinated digital countermeasure, systematically reporting malicious accounts, suppressing fabricated content, and initiating takedown requests across multiple platforms.

Within seconds, the tide had already begun to turn.

Meanwhile, in a grand mansion south of Novare, the sharp crack of a woman’s voice shattered the silence.

”What did you just say?”

A woman in her early fifties rose from the sofa, her elegant features twisted with fury.

”Richard went back to that orphanage... and he still hasn’t returned?”

Her voice rang through the expansive living room, sending a chill through everyone present.

The servants lowered their heads, scarcely daring to breathe.

They knew their mistress’s temper all too well. Whenever she wore that expression, the safest place to be was anywhere outside her line of sight.

No one dared utter a word.

No one...

Except the butler.

Stepping forward despite the suffocating tension, he bowed respectfully.

”Madam, there is... another matter you should know.”

Her icy gaze snapped toward him.

”Speak.”

The butler hesitated for only a moment.

”There is a rumor circulating that Sir Richard has taken a special interest in a woman from the orphanage.”

The room fell deathly silent.

For a heartbeat, no one even dared inhale.

Then, the woman’s eyes darkened, and the crystal teacup in her hand shattered under the force of her grip, scattering fragments across the marble floor.

”So...” she said, her voice frighteningly calm. ”It wasa that girl again.”