The "guests" start arriving...
The first wave hit early. Models, influencers, and socialites—too rich, too drunk, and too stupid to ask questions. Black SUVs dropped them at the private dock where a smaller speedboat, rented under Blackwood's corporate card, ferried them aboard the yacht. Paparazzi were already camped out along the beachfront, squinting through cara lenses as celebrities stepped onto the deck, glittering in barely-there designer outfits and holding champagne flutes the second they stepped foot on the yacht, but livestreams were not allowed until the yatch was afloat.
The guest list was perfect
A reality star notorious for slapping her boyfriend on live TV. A platinum-blonde influencer caught snorting coke during a charity event. So YouTuber who fild himself wrecking a hotel room in Miami. And half a dozen TikTok stars who didn't know how to shut the fuck up.
Every single one of them had been handpicked for their lack of impulse control and addiction to attention. Parker's burner account was already working overti, DMing exclusive details to the gossip pages with just the right tone of mystery:
>"Insider leak: Robert Blackwood's private soirée—VIPs only. No press. But is it really just business?"<
****
The yacht's top deck had been transford into a fantasy. Neon LED strips ran along the rails, casting the whole space in a seductive purple glow. A massive glass dance floor shimred under the DJ booth, pulsing in sync with the music.
Bartenders served champagne towers next to oversized ice sculptures, and the infinity pool along the deck was already packed with people.
So had stripped down to their swimwear. Others hadn't even bothered with that much.
The the? Sinful Soirée.
Dancers wearing nothing but body paint moved along golden poles while others in feathered masks served tequila shots on silver trays. The dress code? Minimal. Lingerie, silk robes, designer swimwear, and everything in between.
And there, right in the middle of it all, was the cherry on top—a massive banner hanging across the pool bar:
"A Night to Rember – Hosted by Robert Blackwood."
"""""
By 11 PM, it was a fucking circus.
People were making out against the railings. So idiot had already started recording a TikTok challenge—sothing involving champagne showers and body shots off soone's abs. A famous DJ had shown up uninvited officially but through one of his influencer friend and was now blasting remixes loud enough to shake the glassware. After all, all the invites were allowed to co with anyone they wanted.
But the best part? The influencers were live-streaming everything.
One of them, a blonde with a million followers, giggled into her cara, panning to the banner. "Oh my God, can you guys believe Robert Blackwood threw this? Is he, like, cool now or what? Because this—this is insane! Look, they have a chocolate fondue fountain and dancers in body glitter—wait, is that a tiger?!"
It wasn't. It was a dude in body paint acting like one, but perception was everything.
Parker sipped his drink, watching the chaos unfold through a dozen different feeds. The burner account was working overti now. He dropped another "anonymous tip" straight to TMZ and Page Six:
> "Massive yacht party off Newport Beach. Rumors swirling it's Robert Blackwood's personal event. Sources claim questionable guests, explicit entertainnt, and financial mismanagent."<
He clicked send and leaned back.
Right on cue, the second phase kicked in.
"""
The dancers? Getting wilder. So influencer tried (and failed) to twerk on the glass bar top, sending bottles crashing. One of the models was definitely doing sothing sketchy with powder in the bathroom.
The captain, paid extra for discretion, did nothing. Just kept the yacht cruising further from the shore.
The first articles hit around 12:30 AM. Small gossip blogs, mostly. Then a tweet from an entertainnt journalist with a blue checkmark:
> "Uhhh, is this real? Robert Blackwood hosting a borderline NSFW yacht party? People are claiming full nudity, illegal substances, and a whole-ass tiger?"<
The story snowballed. TMZ went live with a headline:
>"ROBERT BLACKWOOD'S INSANE YACHT PARTY – EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS!"<
There were already blurry shots of the banner, close-ups of a shirtless guy pouring Cristal over a girl's chest, and one of the dancers full-on grinding on a married politician's son.
Parker smiled coldly.
1:00 AM –
He dialed Cassidy. The call picked up on the first ring.
"Everything's in place. You see the feeds?"
"Oh, I see it. Hell of a party, boss. You're sure this won't bite you?"
"Never. The accounts trace back to the LLC. Paynts are clean. And when the cops finally do show up, guess whose na is on every contract?"
Cassidy paused. "...You're a fucking nace, Parker."
"Damn right."
And just like that, the final ssage was sent—an anonymous email straight to Robert Blackwood's personal inbox with a link to the live stream and five words:
>"Enjoy your legacy, Mr. Blackwood"<
Parker didn't sleep.
The sun was just starting to creep over the horizon when the real fun began. Screen flickered before him, multiple news feeds, gossip blogs, and social dia platforms updating in real-ti. His burner accounts had already planted the seeds. Now it was ti to make sure the world believed the chaos.
He tapped into the secure network, fingers moving fluidly across the keyboard, linking into a few less-than-legal databases he'd cracked open hours ago. Nothing too invasive—just enough to give the dia the push they needed.
Flooding the dia narrative was in motion, First, the visuals were ready. A carefully tid data drop hit several celebrity gossip servers, loaded with the most damning photos:
Robert Blackwood's na glowing behind the DJ booth.
Influencers getting wild with expensive bottles of champagne—directly under his family crest.
A shaky clip where soone shouted, "Shoutout to Robert Blackwood, man, this party's insane!"
Then ca the rumors.
Anonymous tips dropped into TMZ, Page Six, and even Business Insider, emphasizing "drug use suspected," "illicit substances spotted," and "guest list raising eyebrows."
One blog speculated the party was a "morally depraved, cult-like gathering" thanks to the masked dancers.
The captions were ruthless:
"A Billionaire's Fall from Grace?"
"Robert Blackwood: From Boardrooms to Benders."
"Is Blackwood Co. in the Hands of a Diddy-like Party Addict?"
Parker made sure the footage looped the monts that hit hardest—the influencers bragging about how "This is Blackwood's yacht" and the models doing body shots over the engraved Blackwood crest.
The legal buffer? This part had to be airtight. Stay tuned for updates on My Virtual Library Empire
Cassidy had done her job flawlessly.
The LLC: Eclipse Leisure Group, registered offshore under a series of holding companies with no direct link to Parker or Infinity Holdings.
The crew: Fully paid in advance through encrypted, preloaded accounts under Robert's na. The captain had been briefed to shut up and just do his job. They only knew one thing, "We were hired by Mr. Blackwood's representatives."
There were paper trails, digital contracts, also under Robert's na, signatures and family crest showed his supposed authorization for the entertainnt expenses, down to the models and the alcohol shipnt.
If Robert tried to deny involvent, Parker had enough fake digital breadcrumbs to destroy the man's credibility.
At exactly 8:00 AM, a carefully worded press statent was released:
> "Eclipse Leisure Group can confirm that the event was hosted by a private third-party event coordinator in the na of Mr. Blackwood. The company is cooperating fully to ensure clarity. However, all docunts on file, including paynt authorizations, trace back to Mr. Blackwood himself."
Parker leaned back, exhaling slowly.
The dia had everything they needed. And if Robert dared to fight back? The evidence trail was tight enough to bury him under public humiliation for months.
Checkmate. No, not yet. This wasn't over!
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