My sister stole my custom wedding gown and walked down the aisle in it—so I let nearly 300 guests watch the security footage that revealed who helped her. / Chapter 49 / 51

Chapter 49 - The Poisoned Loom

For three seconds, nothing happened.

The blue activity light on the silver terminal blinked steadily as the internal software began reading the drive's file structure. David turned toward the nine council elders, raising his arms in victorious supplication. "Elders of the Guild, witness the rebirth of our dynasty!"

Then, a high-pitched, screeching whine tore through the ballroom's integrated audio system, causing several elders to clap their hands over their ears in agony.

The massive high-definition monitors mounted around the perimeter of the hall—designed to display the financial routing numbers and account balances—flickered violently. The Guild's golden spindle emblem dissolved into static, replaced instantly by high-resolution security camera feeds.

On the central ninety-inch screen, glowing in brutal, uncompromising clarity, was the security footage from the bridal suite at the St. Regis: Sophia slipping the ivory custom gown off its mannequin, guided by our mother’s whispering commands, while David Vance stood by the doorway loading an envelope of cash into the pocket of the church’s private registrar.

"What is this?" Count Rossi shouted, slamming his cane onto the marble floor. "What mockery is this, Vance?!"

David spun around, staring at the screen in utter horror. "No! That's... that's a malfunction! Disconnect the port! Cut the power!"

He lunged toward the terminal to yank the drive out, but a sharp metallic click echoed from behind him.

Sophia had pulled a small, nickel-plated Beretta from the folds of her black velvet gown. She held it steady with both hands, aiming directly at the center of David Vance’s chest.

"Don't touch it, David," Sophia commanded, her voice steady, cold, and lethal. "Let them watch the rest of the film."

The video cut rapidly to the subterranean vaults of Lyon: the fire alarms blaring, the body of the murdered archivist crumpled across the wooden loom, and David Vance firing a silenced pistol into the file cabinets before igniting the magnesium flares.

Beside the footage, a live data stream began scrolling down the screens in red text—the complete, decrypted accounts of the offshore shell corporations, accompanied by the automated notification banner from the French National Police:

*INTERPOL FILE #884-V: WARRANT FOR ARREST ISSUED FOR DAVID VANCE. CHARGES: CORPORATE EMBEZZLEMENT, CONSPIRACY TO COMMIT MURDER, FIRST-DEGREE ARSON.*

Panic instantly ripped through the ballroom. The nine council elders erupted into furious shouting, several of them scrambling from their carved chairs while their private security details drew weapons, uncertain of who to target.