The defamation case got reported across every major outlet. There were no cameras allowed inside the courtroom, but the reporters who were there covered it down to the last detail, and by the time the articles went up, the public knew exactly what went down.
Geoffrey didn't get the upper hand. Not even close. His legal team came in swinging and left with nothing. The coverage made that clear, and so did the headlines that followed.
Worse, the defamation case wasn't even his biggest problem anymore — the documentaries were still out there, still circulating, still pulling new eyes every day. And everything people learned about Geoffrey from those films was stacking on top of the courtroom loss like weight on a cracking foundation.
Then Congress got involved.
With that much public attention on Geoffrey — the lawsuit, the documentaries, the press conference, the lies caught on camera — it was only a matter of time before politicians started paying attention too. A bipartisan group of senators pushed for a formal investigation into Geoffrey's private island. The word island alone was enough to set people off. The public had seen this kind of story before, and they knew where it led.
"We need to know what's happening on that island! If the documentaries are true, Geoffrey is gonna end up on the same level as Hitler!"
"The way that man smiles creeped me out even before the documentaries. I always knew he was bad news."
"Eckstein needs to fucking rot in prison! He's worse than an animal!"
"So Geoffrey tried to have Lucas killed, got caught lying on camera, lost his defamation case, and now Congress is investigating his island?? This man is DONE."
"the fact that his connection to the assassination attempt is just sitting there in the open and he's still walking around free is insane to me"
Emotions were running high and the numbers weren't close. The majority of the public had picked their side, and Geoffrey wasn't on it.
A small minority pushed the other direction — not defending Geoffrey, but questioning the man taking him down.
"Does it bother anyone that Lucas Knight is powerful enough to just destroy someone's entire life whenever he wants? Just asking."
"Lucas owns the platforms, has stakes in the studios, and controls the narrative. That doesn't concern people?"
It didn't gain traction. The evidence was too heavy and the public wasn't in the mood for it. They wanted accountability, and Geoffrey was right there.
Then the federal government moved.
The DOJ and the FBI announced a formal investigation into activities connected to Geoffrey Eckstein's private island — potential violations of trafficking and conspiracy statutes. Short statement. Clinical language. Two paragraphs.
It was the biggest news of the month.
The investigation wasn't coming out of nowhere. Allegations had been circling Geoffrey for years — families accusing him of trafficking, of exploitation, of things involving minors that most people couldn't say out loud without their stomachs turning.
Netflix and Warner had brought those allegations into the courtroom during the defamation hearing, citing them as the documented basis for the very content Geoffrey was trying to sue them over.
The reason Geoffrey had stayed free and rich despite all of it was simple: money.
Deep pockets bought good lawyers, good lawyers negotiated plea deals and settlements, and settlements came with NDAs that kept mouths shut.
When evidence surfaced, it got handled. When families pushed back, they got outspent. That was the playbook, and it had worked for years.
But Geoffrey wasn't up against ordinary people anymore.
He was up against Lucas Knight — a man with more money than Geoffrey, more public trust than Geoffrey, and the kind of cultural influence that turned internet outrage into real-world consequences.
Stack all of that together and the math was obvious. There was enough noise now that the government couldn't sit on the sidelines even if it wanted to. The public was roaring, and politicians had to answer for it.
---
At his New York residence, Geoffrey sat at the head of a long dining table while Dominic and three of his attorneys laid out the situation.
His eyes were cold. The kind of cold that made the people around him choose their words carefully.
It didn't last. Geoffrey slammed his palm flat on the table and the wine glass next to him tipped, spilling red across the white cloth.
"Why can't we stop them? The fucking government thinks they can just walk in whenever they want?" He was on his feet now. "Do I really have no choice but to abandon that base?"
The room went quiet. Dominic and the attorneys exchanged looks but nobody jumped in.
"There's no way to block a federal investigation of this scope," Dominic said finally. "Not with a sitting DOJ order and FBI involvement. Any attempt to intervene — injunctions, jurisdictional challenges — gets denied and makes us look guilty in the process. It's the same thing that happened in 2005 when they raided the place for the same reasons. Only now the public pressure is ten times worse because of Lucas Knight."
"Damn it." Geoffrey shook his head, then steadied himself. "Did your people get everything out? The private investigators — did they clean the place?"
Dominic nodded. "Evidence, yes. But the guests... we didn't have enough time to move them without leaving a bigger trail."
The guests were the people they'd trafficked there.
"They can talk all they want," Geoffrey said, his voice flat. "Without physical evidence to back it up, it's testimony against testimony. That's manageable."
His eyes narrowed. "That damn Lucas. I never expected him to be this much of a problem. It pains me to admit it, but Myla was right. I should've been more serious about getting rid of him when I had the chance."
"You can't think like that now, boss," Dominic said quickly. "Every move you make is being watched. And Lucas has the best private security of any public figure in the country. That door is closed."
"I fucking know." Geoffrey dropped back into his chair. "I know."
---
Two days after the announcement, federal agents landed on Geoffrey's island. The media covered the arrival from helicopters — live footage of boats pulling up to the dock, agents in tactical gear walking the property, the whole thing broadcast in real time to millions of viewers.
It was the only thing anyone talked about that day.
Then reports came out that agents had found girls on the property. Young. Unaccounted for. And the public lost its mind.
The next day, police held a press conference. A woman identified as Giselle — Geoffrey's right hand — stepped in front of the cameras and stated that the girls found on the island were there voluntarily, as part of a program offering them "opportunities" and professional development.
She described it as philanthropic outreach. She said Geoffrey had been generous enough to provide it.
Nobody believed a word of it.
"Hahaha, did she really just say Geoffrey is 'generous enough to give them opportunities' and they're there voluntarily?? That's the most disgusting bullshit I've ever heard in my life."
"That woman reeks! Who the fuck goes to a private island for 'opportunities'?? FBI needs to dig deeper into this because what they found is just the surface."
"'Philanthropic outreach' is crazy work. Just say trafficking. We all know what it is."
"The fact that they had a whole press conference ready with a script tells you everything. They KNEW what was on that island and they had a cover story prepared."
"Every day I think it can't get worse and every day Geoffrey Eckstein proves me wrong."
This was the turning point. Before, people had opinions. Strong ones, loud ones, but still just opinions shaped by documentaries and headlines and courtroom reporting. Now there were girls — real, living, recovered girls — and that changed the conversation from speculation to certainty.
The court hadn't labeled Geoffrey guilty. That process would take months, maybe years. But the public had already delivered its verdict, and it wasn't waiting for a judge to catch up.
---
Lucas was following all of it.
He had direct lines of communication with the FBI's task force handling the island investigation — something that would've been impossible for a private citizen under normal circumstances. But Lucas wasn't a normal private citizen.
He was the plaintiff in an active civil suit directly connected to the subject of the federal probe, his legal team had submitted evidence that overlapped with the bureau's scope of investigation, and his cooperation had been formally requested through channels that Neil and his attorneys had spent weeks building.
The FBI didn't let people in because they were famous. They let Lucas in because his case and theirs had become the same case.
That said, Lucas wasn't involved because he expected the island to produce anything damning. He knew Geoffrey. The man had decades of practice making evidence disappear, and there was no chance he'd left anything useful behind on a property he knew was about to be raided.
If the government wanted real evidence — financial records, communications, the operational infrastructure behind the trafficking — they needed to be looking at Geoffrey's New York residence, not a sanitized island.
Lucas was there for a different reason.
He sat in a small office inside the FBI's field building, waiting. The table in front of him was covered in photographs from the island raid — aerial shots, interior rooms, hallways, the dock.
From the pictures, the place looked pristine. White sand, clean buildings, palm trees. Peaceful on the surface. But the photos from inside told a different story. Maid uniforms hung in rows. Small beds crammed into back rooms. Locks on the outside of doors.
Lucas stared at one of the photos for a long time and said nothing.
The door opened. Special Agent Ruiz from the FBI's Criminal Investigative Division stepped in. Behind him was a girl. Twelve, maybe thirteen. Thin. Still wearing a maid's uniform that was too big for her. Her eyes moved between Lucas and Ruiz like she was trying to figure out whether she was in trouble.
Lucas went still.
"Based on the description you provided," Ruiz said, his voice careful but unable to fully hide what was behind it, "we believe this is the girl you've been looking for. She recognized the name Daciana immediately."
Lucas looked at her. The shape of her face, the way she held herself, the eyes — he could see it. The resemblance was there.
The girl looked up at him. Cautious. Guarded in a way no child should have to be.
"M-mister," she said quietly. "Do you know my little sister?"
Ruiz put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "It's okay. This is the man I told you about. He's the one taking care of Daciana."
Lucas crouched down so he was eye level with her. He didn't reach for her. Didn't crowd her space. Just met her eyes and let the smile come on its own.
"Yeah," he said. "I know her. And she's safe."
The girl stared at him like she was waiting for the catch.
"Re-really?" Her voice cracked. "C-can I meet her?"
She was holding herself tight — arms close to her body, shoulders drawn in. Everything about her said she wanted to believe it but didn't trust herself to. These were strangers. She didn't know who they were, didn't know if they were telling the truth, didn't know if this was just another version of the "friends" Geoffrey's people had introduced her to before.
"Of course you can meet your sister," Lucas said.
She didn't react the way a kid should when they hear news like that. No excitement, no relief, no rush of emotion. She just stood there, reserved, like she was pressing it all down somewhere deep where it couldn't hurt her if it turned out to be a lie.
But there was something else behind her eyes. Not just caution. Worry.
"What's wrong?" Lucas asked. "You don't seem happy."
She hesitated. She looked at Ruiz, then back at Lucas, then at the floor.
"I..." She chewed on the words before letting them out. "Will meeting my sister mean she also has to do that... 'massage'?"
The room went quiet.
Ruiz's expression shifted — a flicker of something raw that he couldn't quite keep off his face. "Daria, I already told you. You're not on the island anymore. You're safe here. Eckstein and his people aren't here to force you to do anything. That's over."
Lucas had gone still the moment the word left her mouth. He recovered fast, but underneath the calm, something cold had settled in his chest. 'Those bastards...'
He met Ruiz's eyes. Ruiz gave him a small nod.
Lucas looked back at Daria and kept his voice easy. "So your name is Daria, huh? Both you and your sister with D names. That's a beautiful thing." He smiled. "And just like Ruiz said — you're safe here. You don't need to be afraid anymore."
He reached out and patted the top of her head, gentle, unhurried.
Daria didn't flinch. Didn't pull back. She just stood there and let him, like some part of her already knew he wasn't going to hurt her.
Then a tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.
"Is something wrong?" Lucas asked, his voice dropping.
"N-no!" Daria shook her head quickly. "I'm just happy, is all."
Lucas let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
More tears came after that, rolling quietly down her face even though her expression stayed flat. No sobbing, no sound. Just tears falling from a face that had learned a long time ago not to show what it felt. She'd been through things that no twelve-year-old should have a frame of reference for, and it showed in the way she cried without moving.
Lucas and Ruiz both felt it. Neither said a word.
Daria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked up. "Where is my little sister? Can I see her now?"
Her voice was different this time. Calmer. Less guarded. Something had shifted.
"You'll see her soon," Lucas said. "I promise you that." He patted her head again, and she let him again.
They talked for a few more minutes — small things, easy things, nothing heavy — and then Daria left the room with Ruiz. She looked back at Lucas once from the doorway, then followed Ruiz down the hall.
Ruiz came back a minute later and closed the door.
"When can I take her to see Daciana?" Lucas asked.
Ruiz sat down across from him. "Not yet. Legally, Daria is classified as a potential victim in an active federal investigation. We can't release her into anyone's custody until the intake process is complete — medical evaluation, psychological screening, formal interviews."
"There's a protocol for minors recovered in trafficking cases, and it has to be followed to the letter or anything connected to her testimony gets compromised down the line." He paused. "But I'm going to push for a supervised visit as soon as she's cleared through the initial phase. Given the family connection and your role in the case, I don't see it being denied. It's just going to take a few days."
Lucas listened and nodded. "I understand. Just contact me when there's movement and I can bring her to see Daciana."
"Of course," Ruiz said. Then he paused. Shifted in his chair. Pulled out his phone and held it awkwardly. "But, uh — before you go..." He cleared his throat. "Could I maybe get a photo with you?"
Lucas looked at him for a second.
Then he laughed. A real one — the first one in a while.
"Sure. I think that's fine."
"This is great. Thank you!" Ruiz came around the table grinning like a kid, held the phone up, and they took the photo.
Lucas shook his hand, walked out of the building, and climbed into the waiting SUV. Jack closed the door behind him, and the convoy pulled out toward Tribeca.
---
Jennifer was already on her feet when Lucas walked through the door.
She'd been waiting for hours — checking her phone, pacing between the living room and the kitchen, trying not to spiral. The second she saw his face, she closed the distance.
"What happened? Was she there? Is Daciana's sister —"
"She's there." Lucas set his jacket down and sat on the couch. Jennifer dropped down next to him. "Her name is Daria. She's twelve. And she's alive."
Jennifer pressed her hand to her mouth.
"She's okay," Lucas continued. "Physically, she's fine. But she's been through a lot. You could see it in the way she carried herself. The way she talked. She asked me if meeting her sister meant Daciana would have to do..." He paused. "She asked things a twelve-year-old shouldn't even know to ask."
Jennifer's relief curdled into something harder. She clenched her fists on her knees. "I'm thankful. I really am. I'm thankful she's alive and that we found her. But I am so furious." Her voice shook. "How can anyone be that inhuman to children? How do you do that to a kid and still walk around calling yourself a person?"
Lucas didn't answer right away. He leaned back and exhaled through his nose.
The honest truth was that if it were up to him — if he had the authority — he'd have Geoffrey in handcuffs tomorrow. The evidence was right there. Girls recovered from a private island. Testimony waiting to be taken. A paper trail that pointed in one direction and one direction only.
But the law didn't work on what was obvious. It worked on what was provable within a framework that had been built, over centuries, to protect the accused as much as the accuser.
Geoffrey's lawyers knew that framework better than most people knew their own homes. Every statute had a loophole, every charge had a burden of proof, and every piece of evidence had to survive a gauntlet of procedural challenges before it ever reached a jury.
The system wasn't designed to be fast. It was designed to be thorough — and men like Geoffrey had spent their entire careers learning how to make thorough work in their favor.
It was the cruel paradox of due process: the very thing that protected the innocent also gave the guilty room to maneuver.
Lucas knew that. He accepted it. But accepting it didn't make it easier to swallow.
He talked with Jennifer for a while longer, then they drove to the LK Foundation to see Daciana.
They didn't tell her about Daria.
It wasn't a hard decision. Daciana was a little girl, and if they told her now that her older sister had been found, she'd light up — and then immediately want to see her. That was the natural response, the healthy one, and they didn't want to follow it with but you can't yet and watch that excitement turn into waiting.
Kids didn't understand bureaucratic timelines.
They understood now and not now, and "not now" after a promise like that would feel like something being taken away.
Better to wait until the visit was confirmed, until they could walk Daciana into a room and let her see Daria with her own eyes, no delay, no disappointment. The surprise would be worth more than the early news.
---
Across town, Vince's recovery at LK Hospital was going well.
The doctors were cautiously optimistic. His vitals had stabilized, and the treatment plan was holding.
But the media had figured out where he was — it wasn't hard, given the hospital literally had Lucas's initials on it — and now reporters were camped outside, requesting interviews, asking about his condition, trying to get anyone in scrubs to say something on the record.
Lucas had anticipated this. A small but capable security detail was stationed at the hospital around the clock — not just for Vince's comfort, but because Vince wasn't only his father. He was a witness. A key one. And until his testimony was formally recorded and preserved, his safety wasn't optional.
The security was useful right away — they acted as a barricade against the more aggressive reporters trying to push past the lobby, keeping the media at a manageable distance.
But they proved even more necessary a few days later, when Myla showed up at the hospital.
She walked into the lobby like she owned the building and told the front desk she was there to see her husband.
The receptionist checked the restricted-access list, made a call, and came back with a polite but firm answer: visitation had been declined.
Myla didn't take it well.
"Declined? That is my husband! You can't keep me from seeing my own husband!" She slammed her palm on the counter. "This is illegal! This is — this is Lucas! He's behind this! He's keeping me away from Vince because he's afraid of what I'll say!"
The receptionist stayed calm. Security moved in from the hallway.
"Don't touch me! Don't you dare touch me!" Myla's voice hit a pitch that turned heads across the entire lobby. "This is a setup! Lucas Knight orchestrated all of this! He turned my husband against me and now he's holding him hostage in his own hospital! The whole world needs to see what this man is doing!"
She pointed at the security cameras like they were an audience. "You think you can silence me? You think locking me out of this building changes anything? I am his WIFE! I have rights!"
Security escorted her out. She fought it the whole way — not physically, but vocally, loud enough that everyone in the lobby heard every word and half the block probably did too.
And waiting outside, of course, were the cameras.
Myla didn't avoid them. She walked straight into the cluster of reporters like she'd been expecting them — or hoping for them.
"They won't let me see my own husband," she said, eyes wet, voice cracking at exactly the right moments. "Lucas Knight has him locked in that hospital and he won't allow me access. Vince is sick. He needs his family. And instead of being with the people who love him, he's being kept in isolation by a man who is using him as a weapon against me."
She wiped her eye with the back of her hand. "I'm not the villain here. I've never been the villain. Lucas has the money, the platforms, the media — he controls the narrative. And nobody questions him because they're all afraid of what he'll do to them if they speak up."
The reporters kept recording. Every one of them knew these clips would lead the evening cycle.
Whether any of it was true didn't matter. It was dramatic, it was emotional, and it featured a crying woman being escorted out of a hospital named after the man she was accusing.
That was enough. The headlines wrote themselves, the clicks would follow, and the networks would run it because attention was the only currency that mattered in the news business.
Truth could wait. Views couldn't.