Now They Want My Forgiveness - Chapter 159: Chapter 159
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Jordan had told Kevin it was fate talking. Inside, he knew how fate could have missed by inches.
He'd brought her home anyway, ring on her finger and shadows in her eyes, and decided he could wait. She was here; she wasn't running.
"Kevin's on thin ice with the Carvers," Jordan said. "Choosing to work with me right now? Not great for his popularity contest. But I'm the only one who can shove him into the driver's seat permanently."
Stella met his eyes across the table. "Jordan, thank you."
Darkness flickered behind Jordan's composed expression. He hated it when she spoke for other men. "For?"
"For giving him a fighting chance. He's got the brains, and his dad sees that, but without backup, the second that old man makes Troy walk out of prison, Kevin would be exiled from the family entirely."
"Troy," Jordan echoed, voice suddenly arctic. "He's never walking out."
Stella glanced at him, puzzled.
Jordan picked up the serving fork, scooped a bite, and slid it onto her plate. "Try these. You nailed the seasoning."
Stella gave a small nod but stayed quiet. She itched to ask how he planned to fight the Carvers' smear campaign; two days had already passed, and the stock was in free-fall.
Still, Jordan had come home looking like nothing in the world could touch him, so she let the question die on her tongue.
The answer arrived before she had to speak.
First came the leak: a dossier on Troy Carver—every club he'd hit, every girl he'd used, and the one he'd left dead in a motel. The police department's official account retweeted the thread, stamping it with a blue check and the word CONFIRMED.
In a heartbeat, the internet saw Troy for what he was. The mud the Carvers had flung at Jordan dried and flaked away; forty-eight hours, and they hadn't produced a single new document.
Jordan, on the other hand, had receipts, timestamps, and the cops on his side. Those ugly deeds were all done by Troy himself, not Jordan.
Public rage swung hard. To make amends, retail investors piled back into Jordan's company. Meanwhile, his team slipped a few paid influencers onto the feeds: Apple—the app Jordan built—was the last honest gatekeeper on the web, scrubbing ads before they ever reached your screen.
The pitch felt true, because it was. By sunset, #StandWithAppleFilter was trending, and angry traders were dumping Carver Group shares like they were on fire.
Norman Carver had kept his cool through market dips. This, though, rattled him. He asked—then begged—for a meeting with Jordan. Jordan didn't even text back.
"Back then, I wanted to talk," Jordan told Stella over late-night coffee, "and he slammed the door. Now he wants in? Not how the world works."
The Carvers pulled every string they had. None worked; when Jordan cut someone off, he cut deep.
Norman didn't know what to do. That was when Kevin stepped forward. "I can try," he told his father. "No promises, but maybe he'll hear me out."
Norman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Don't waste my time. I know exactly how you feel about Stella.
"How many times have I told you—set your sights on Anna. She's the one with pull in that family. Stella? A ghost.
"Sure, she got lucky and landed Jordan, which only makes it worse. Jordan knows you were hung up on his wife. Why the hell would he open the door for you?"
He'd brought her home anyway, ring on her finger and shadows in her eyes, and decided he could wait. She was here; she wasn't running.
"Kevin's on thin ice with the Carvers," Jordan said. "Choosing to work with me right now? Not great for his popularity contest. But I'm the only one who can shove him into the driver's seat permanently."
Stella met his eyes across the table. "Jordan, thank you."
Darkness flickered behind Jordan's composed expression. He hated it when she spoke for other men. "For?"
"For giving him a fighting chance. He's got the brains, and his dad sees that, but without backup, the second that old man makes Troy walk out of prison, Kevin would be exiled from the family entirely."
"Troy," Jordan echoed, voice suddenly arctic. "He's never walking out."
Stella glanced at him, puzzled.
Jordan picked up the serving fork, scooped a bite, and slid it onto her plate. "Try these. You nailed the seasoning."
Stella gave a small nod but stayed quiet. She itched to ask how he planned to fight the Carvers' smear campaign; two days had already passed, and the stock was in free-fall.
Still, Jordan had come home looking like nothing in the world could touch him, so she let the question die on her tongue.
The answer arrived before she had to speak.
First came the leak: a dossier on Troy Carver—every club he'd hit, every girl he'd used, and the one he'd left dead in a motel. The police department's official account retweeted the thread, stamping it with a blue check and the word CONFIRMED.
In a heartbeat, the internet saw Troy for what he was. The mud the Carvers had flung at Jordan dried and flaked away; forty-eight hours, and they hadn't produced a single new document.
Jordan, on the other hand, had receipts, timestamps, and the cops on his side. Those ugly deeds were all done by Troy himself, not Jordan.
Public rage swung hard. To make amends, retail investors piled back into Jordan's company. Meanwhile, his team slipped a few paid influencers onto the feeds: Apple—the app Jordan built—was the last honest gatekeeper on the web, scrubbing ads before they ever reached your screen.
The pitch felt true, because it was. By sunset, #StandWithAppleFilter was trending, and angry traders were dumping Carver Group shares like they were on fire.
Norman Carver had kept his cool through market dips. This, though, rattled him. He asked—then begged—for a meeting with Jordan. Jordan didn't even text back.
"Back then, I wanted to talk," Jordan told Stella over late-night coffee, "and he slammed the door. Now he wants in? Not how the world works."
The Carvers pulled every string they had. None worked; when Jordan cut someone off, he cut deep.
Norman didn't know what to do. That was when Kevin stepped forward. "I can try," he told his father. "No promises, but maybe he'll hear me out."
Norman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Don't waste my time. I know exactly how you feel about Stella.
"How many times have I told you—set your sights on Anna. She's the one with pull in that family. Stella? A ghost.
"Sure, she got lucky and landed Jordan, which only makes it worse. Jordan knows you were hung up on his wife. Why the hell would he open the door for you?"
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