Chapter 3: The Boardroom Execution
Three days later, the annual gala for the Vance Foundation was underway in the city’s most exclusive rooftop venue. Eleanor Vance stood at the podium, holding a glass of champagne, addressing the city’s elite. She was spinning the narrative, telling the patrons that her daughter-in-law had suffered a "hysterical fainting spell" due to "personal instability," and that the family was generously covering all medical expenses while quietly managing her recovery.
“We must protect our family values,” Eleanor declared, earning a polite round of applause from the wealthy sycophants who hung on her every word. “Stability, integrity, and strength above all.”
Suddenly, the massive LED screens behind her—usually reserved for displaying corporate logos and donation tiers—flickered. The polished presentation vanished, replaced by a looping, high-definition video.
The audio boomed through the state-of-the-art sound system: “A nobody like you doesn't deserve a dime of Vance money. Let’s see how your little bastard likes the floor.”
The image of Eleanor lifting the cake and driving it into Maya’s pregnant belly played on loop across a forty-foot screen for five hundred of the most powerful people in the city to see.
The room went dead silent. Champagne glasses froze mid-air. Whispers erupted like wildfire.
May you like
Eleanor spun around, her face instantly draining of all color, turning a pasty, sickly gray. She dropped her microphone, the feedback screeching through the speakers. “Turn that off!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at the projection booth. “It’s a deepfake! It’s cyberterrorism!”
The heavy double doors of the ballroom opened. Lucas walked in, flanked by two federal marshals and a team of high-powered corporate litigators. He didn't look like the compliant, dutiful son anymore. He looked like the primary shareholder he legally was.
