Chapter 7 - A Venomous Corner
High above the ballroom, the sound technician pressed a single button on the master console, overriding the scheduled promotional video.
The massive eighty-foot screen flickered.
The room expected a montage of orphanages, smiling children holding educational grants, or Vanessa posing in third-world schools.
Instead, a timestamp appeared in the top left corner: **TODAY – 19:42:15.**
The location tag read: **ST. REGIS PENTHOUSE ELEVATOR VESTIBULE.**
The video began.
The ballroom’s multimillion-dollar surround-sound system picked up the sharp, brutal sound of a slap.
*Crack.*
The impact was so loud, so raw, that several women in the front row audibly gasped, dropping their champagne flutes to the floor with a crash of glass.
On the screen, Vanessa’s face appeared in crystal-clear 4K resolution. The camera angle was perfect, capturing every millimeter of her venomous sneer. The audio rang out through the ballroom, pristine and horrifying:
*“You clumsy, useless little parasite.”*
Vanessa reached out, grabbed Emily’s curls, and slammed the seven-year-old girl into the marble wall.
A collective shriek of horror ripped through the five hundred guests. Prominent socialites covered their mouths; hardened Wall Street executives stood up in outrage; flashbulbs exploded like machine-gun fire as the press corps instantly realized they were witnessing the greatest scandal in New York high society history.
On the screen, Emily’s voice echoed: *“Please, Mommy… stop! You're hurting me!”*
Then, the elevator opened. Christian walked out. The video paused on Vanessa’s face, captured in absolute, petrified guilt.
The screen went black.
The silence that followed was unlike anything the St. Regis had ever experienced. It was the silence of five hundred people realizing they were standing in the presence of a monster.
Vanessa stood behind the podium, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She looked out at the sea of faces—people who had kissed her cheek an hour ago, people who had begged to be invited to her Hamptons parties—now staring at her with unadulterated disgust and revulsion.
“It’s… it’s a deepfake!” Vanessa screamed into the microphone, her voice shattering into a hysterical, unhinged screech that fed back through the speakers. “It’s AI! He fabricated it! Christian is trying to ruin me so he doesn't have to pay my settlement! Look at him! He’s a ruthless monster!”
No one moved. No one spoke.
Christian turned to her slowly, his expression calm, detached, and terrifyingly cold.
May you like
“The Metropolitan Police Department,” Christian spoke into his lapel mic, “and the Manhattan District Attorney’s Special Victims Unit would disagree.”
***
