Chapter 3 - The Price of a SpectacleA collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Priscilla’s face drained of all color, turning as white as her Oregon roses. "How... how can you say that to me?" she stammered, her voice cracking. "I am your fiancée! I am the future mistress of this house! She spilled champagne on my dress, she—"
"She was ten feet away from the spill, Priscilla," Damian interrupted, his voice cutting through her lies like a scalpel. "I was at the top of the stairs. I saw everything. I saw Miles drop the tray. And I saw you look around the room, searching for someone vulnerable to punish because you couldn't bear the thought of a minor accident ruining your perfect picture."
He stood up straight, towering over Priscilla. The blue paint on his hands looked like a badge of honor compared to the ugly stain of malice radiating from the woman in the pearl gown.
"You wanted everyone to watch her," Damian continued, turning his body slightly to face the entire ballroom. His eyes swept over the crowd of socialites, politicians, and tycoons. "You wanted a show. You wanted an audience to witness your power. Well, you have it. Everyone is watching."
Damian raised his hand and gestured toward the tech booth at the back of the ballroom. "Marcus," he called out loudly.
The head of estate security immediately stepped forward from the shadows. "Yes, Mr. Cross?"
"Connect the estate’s security feed from the ballroom to the main projectors. The ones setting up the digital art display. I want the last ten minutes played on a loop on every single screen in this room. Let’s make sure none of our guests miss a single detail of my fiancée's... grace."
"Damian, no! You can't do this!" Priscilla shrieked, her voice reaching a desperate, manic pitch. "Are you insane? There are reporters outside! There are lifestyle editors waiting for pictures! You will ruin my family’s reputation! You will ruin our name!"
"Your family’s reputation is built on wealth they didn't earn, and your name is no longer associated with mine," Damian said with absolute finality. He reached down, grabbed Clara’s trembling, paint-stained hand, and pulled it gently but firmly into the crook of his arm. "Dorothy!" he called out.
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The elderly housekeeper stepped out from the crowd, her jaw set, her eyes shining with fierce pride for both Damian and Clara. "Yes, sir?"
"Clear the ballroom. The party is over. Tell the security team to escort anyone who hesitates off the property. And call my personal physician to the private quarters." With that, Damian turned his back on his wedding, his guests, and his crying fiancée, walking Clara away from the wreckage of the night.
