“But I don’t think it was as funny as the joke his mother, Patricia, told two years ago,” I continued, my voice steady and fueled by pure adrenaline. I looked directly toward the sound booth at the back of the ballroom.
The DJ, a man I had tipped an extra five hundred dollars earlier that afternoon, gave me a thumbs up.
I pointed toward the enormous twenty-foot LED screen behind the head table, which was still showing a romantic looping photograph of Derek and me on a beach.
“I’d like everyone to look at our Love Journey video,” I announced.
Derek turned around.
The beach photograph disappeared. In its place, a banking document appeared in huge, high-definition lettering. It was a statement of debt. Derek Hayes. Principal Owed: $2.4 Million. Interest Default. Beside it was the logo of a notorious underground equity firm known for breaking legs before they broke contracts.
A collective gasp swept through the room.
Derek lunged toward the microphone. “Cut the feed! Cut the damn screen!” he bellowed.
But the DJ had locked the booth.
The screen changed again. This time, it showed a massive screenshot of an email. From: Patricia Hayes To: Derek Hayes Subject: The Morgan Estate. “She’s grieving and rich. Play the protective anchor. Once you have the ring, she’ll hand over the reins.”
Patricia, seated only feet away, went ashen. Her champagne flute slipped from her hand and shattered against the marble floor, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the silent ballroom.
“What is this?” Derek’s father, Richard, demanded, staring at the screen in disbelief. He turned toward his wife. “Patty, did you write that?”
“It’s a fake! She’s crazy!” Patricia shrieked, rising and pointing a trembling finger at me.
“And finally,” I said into the microphone, stepping away from Derek. “I want everyone to hear what my loving husband had to say to me after he made me bleed tonight.”
The speakers crackled.
The audio file, perfectly preserved through the cloud upload, exploded through the ballroom’s surround sound system.
“Smile, Claire. Don’t embarrass me.” Derek’s voice came through with horrifying clarity.
Then came the recording from the hallway.
“Open the damn door, Claire. Now.” “Give me the key before she does something stupid!”
And finally, the crystal-clear recording of him striking me, the sickening impact of his hand against my jaw, followed by the crash of the laptop.
“You really thought you were smart, didn’t you? It’s 9:45 PM. You don’t have a computer. You don’t have a file. And in two hours, I own everything your daddy ever built.”
Nobody moved.
The influential business partners Derek had invited, the very men he desperately needed to impress to save himself, stared at him with undisguised disgust.
