Chapter 7 - The Screens IgniteBefore Chloe could scream or rush the stage, the massive multi-panel projection screens behind me flickered from black to crisp, high-definition color.
The audio system powered up.
Crystal-clear video began playing across the giant screens for five hundred elite guests to see.
It showed Chloe marching into the living room, ripping Sofia’s worn stuffed rabbit out of her hands, and tossing it onto a high shelf. It captured her shrill voice echoing through the speakers: "How many times do I have to tell you brats that I don't want you lounging around in the main living room?"
The ballroom went dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop on the carpet.
The video progressed. It showed Chloe aggressively grabbing six-year-old Sofia by her thin wrist, leaving her trembling, before Marisol stepped in to protect the child.
Then, the screen cut to a second clip.
It showed Chloe standing in the master walk-in closet late at night, pulling a pair of diamond earrings out of her own jewelry box, walking quietly down the hall, and dropping them deep into the bottom of Marisol’s laundry basket.
The audio caught her whispering to herself with a wicked grin: "Let’s see how long the maid lasts after this."
And finally, a third clip played—showing Chloe physically shoving nine-year-old Valeria into a hallway wall when she spilled a drop of juice, hissing curses into the terrified child's ear.
The entire room erupted into absolute, deafening chaos.
Gasps turned into angry shouts. Wealthy society matrons pressed their hands over their mouths in horror. Venture capitalists and studio heads stared at the screens in utter disbelief, their jaws slack.
At the head table, Chloe had completely frozen.
The color had drained entirely from her face, leaving her looking like a marble statue. Her designer emerald gown suddenly looked like a prison uniform under the harsh amber spotlights.
"Turn it off!" Chloe shrieked, her voice cracking into a hysterical, piercing scream as she stumbled backward, knocking her chair crashing to the floor. "Turn that disgusting garbage off! It’s fake! It’s edited AI deepfakes! Alexander is lying!"
She looked around the ballroom, frantically seeking allies among the high-society elites who had been drinking her champagne just ten minutes earlier.
Every single person at surrounding tables turned their chairs away from her in absolute disgust, refusing to even look in her direction.
I stood calmly at the podium on stage, holding the microphone.
"Every frame of that footage," I said, my voice cutting through the shrieking silence of the ballroom like a razor, "is authenticated by certified federal forensic experts, backed by sixty days of unedited security logs from my Bel-Air estate."
I looked down from the stage directly into Chloe’s wide, terrified eyes.
"Our engagement is terminated, Chloe. Your access cards to my properties have been permanently deactivated. And copies of these files are currently sitting on the desk of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office, detailing charges of child abuse, harassment, and grand theft."
Chloe burst into hysterical, choking tears, grabbing the edges of her hair as flashbulbs from society bloggers and tabloid reporters went off in a blinding flurry around her.
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Two uniformed hotel security guards stepped out from the side doors of the ballroom, walking firmly toward her.
Without another word, they grabbed Chloe by her arms and dragged her kicking, screaming, and sobbing across the parquet floor toward the exit, her designer emerald gown trailing behind her in the dust.
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