Chapter 9 - Surrounded by Flashes
Victoria bounced off the wall of guests, stumbling backward into the edge of the ruined champagne table.
Her bare feet slipped on the wet flagstones, but she managed to catch herself against a broken wooden chair.
Her breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps, her chest heaving against the soaked, ruined crimson silk.
"Do you know who I am?!" she screamed at the wall of guests, her voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched screech.
"I am Victoria Bennett! I built this family's social empire! You are guests in my home!"
Nobody answered her with words; the collective response was infinitely more devastating.
From every corner of the courtyard, sleek smartphones were drawn from velvet purses and tuxedo pockets.
Dozens of high-resolution camera lenses were raised simultaneously, pointed directly at Victoria’s disheveled, manic form.
The bright, blinding LED flashlights of multiple phones illuminated her like an escaped criminal in the crosshairs.
The distinct, rhythmic click and hum of digital video recording filled the tense silence between her screams.
Every angle of her disgrace was being captured in photorealistic, uneditable 4K resolution.
They filmed her smeared red lipstick, her matted platinum hair, her champagne-stained dress, and her bloody palms.
They filmed the shattered crystal, the overturned magnum bottles, and the flooded terrace behind her.
Most damning of all, they filmed the terrified, shivering twenty-one-year-old girl huddled on the wet floor behind her father.
Victoria froze, the sudden onslaught of blinding camera lights piercing through the fog of her psychotic rage.
Her cold blue eyes darted frantically from one phone screen to another, realizing with sickening dread what was happening.
These were the very people whose opinions she worshipped, the elite tastemakers whose approval she had killed to possess.
Now, they were broadcasting her vicious, unprovoked assault to group chats, board members, and social media networks.
Her reputation, her social standing, and her carefully constructed image of high-class sophistication were evaporating in real-time.
"Put those away..." Victoria stammered, her voice suddenly losing its ferocious volume and dropping into a trembling whisper.
She raised her scratched, bloody hands to cover her face, trying desperately to shield herself from the relentless lenses.
"Put them down! Stop recording me! Arthur, make them stop!" she pleaded, turning her frantic eyes toward her husband.
Arthur Bennett did not look at her; his eyes remained fixed on his trembling daughter, his heart stone-cold to his wife's panic.
Victoria looked around the circle of faces, finding only cold judgment, moral disgust, and righteous condemnation.
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The arrogant, untouchable queen of the estate had become an exposed, cornered beast waiting for the cage to drop.
Her knees trembled beneath her, the reality of her utter ruin crashing down on her like a mountain of lead.
