Chapter 8 - The Broadcast
The video played out like a Greek tragedy on IMAX. Five hundred of Arizona’s most elite citizens watched in stunned, horrified silence.
They saw Callan—the man they had just been pitying—march aggressively toward me. They saw his face, unbandaged and furious.
"I said apologize."
"No."
SMACK.
The sound of the slap was amplified through the hotel's state-of-the-art surround sound system. It cracked like a whip. On the screen, my head whipped to the side. The crowd let out a collective, audible gasp of horror. Several women covered their mouths.
Then, the video cut. But it didn't end.
The screen flashed black, and large white text appeared: TWO HOURS EARLIER.
The footage cut back to Melissa and Brooklyn sitting at the table. The audio was pristine, cleaned up by Elias to ensure every venomous syllable was heard.
"She's a peasant, Brooklyn," Melissa's voice boomed over the speakers, her giant face looming on the screens above the very stage where she was standing in real life. "We just have to push her until she breaks... If we humiliate her enough today, he'll agree to the annulment..."
Below me, chaos erupted.
Melissa stood frozen at the podium, her face drained of all color, looking like a ghost in an emerald dress. Brooklyn shrieked and tried to run off the stage, but the crowd had surged forward, a sea of angry, pointing fingers and flashing cell phone cameras.
"Turn it off!" Melissa screamed, her voice cracking in panic. "Security! Cut the power! It's a deepfake! It's fake!"
But Elias had barricaded the AV door. The video looped, playing the slap again. And again.
I looked at Reynolds. The corrupt detective was staring at the screens, his baton hanging loosely in his hand. He looked at me, then back at the chaos below. He realized in real-time that the Harrington empire was crumbling, and his paycheck was turning to dust. He slowly backed away, turned, and sprinted down the hall, fleeing like a rat from a sinking ship.
Down in the ballroom, reporters who had been invited to cover Callan's "triumph" were now aggressively shoving microphones into Melissa's face.
"Mrs. Harrington, did you orchestrate the abuse of your daughter-in-law?"
"Callan, did you strike your wife unprovoked?"
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Callan was trying to push his way through the crowd, his good eye wide with sheer terror. People who had been hugging him ten minutes ago were now actively backing away in disgust.
I stood on the mezzanine, my chest heaving, tears streaming down my face. The fear was gone. The shame was gone. I had walked into the fire, and instead of burning, I had burned them down.
