The storm had not lifted; if anything, the gray morning had deepened into a bruised dusk, the kind that seemed to press low against the world, muffling sound and suffocating light. As guests filed into the Hayes family banquet hall, tension hung as heavily as the crystal chandeliers overhead. The golden light shimmered off polished surfaces, reflected in strained smiles, brittle laughter, and the quick, darting glances between old allies now unsure of their footing. Outside, the media vans loomed, their cameras already trained on the tall windows, waiting to devour whatever spectacle unfolded within.
Evelyn stood near the grand entrance, a radiant vision in sapphire silk. Her hair was swept into a perfect chignon, her smile polished to a blinding sheen, and her laugh—delicate, silvery—rang with the practiced ease of a woman determined to command the room. But up close, the illusion cracked. The corner of her mouth twitched too sharply; her fingers fidgeted with the clasp of her clutch, and her gaze flicked toward the entrance every few seconds, as if anticipating an ambush. Under the warm glow, her skin was pale, almost translucent, the pulse at her throat fluttering fast. She murmured greetings, her lips brushing cheeks, her voice light, but her fingers left small indentations in the delicate satin of her evening bag.
Across the room, Lottie moved like a shadow slicing through velvet. Her dress was simple, black, understated, but every line of her posture was honed to a blade. Her fingers grazed champagne flutes and shoulders in passing, a quiet word here, a murmured joke there. Each movement was calculated, each smile laced with the precision of a master chess player. Mason moved with her, a dark silhouette at her side, subtly directing key guests into her orbit. His voice was a murmur against her ear, his hand a steadying presence at her elbow.
Leo sat at the edge of the room, laptop open, the faint glow casting sharp lines across his face. His fingers flew over the keys, intercepting Evelyn's communications and feeding live updates into Lottie's earpiece. "Adrian's signaled the media," Leo murmured into the mic, his voice threaded with excitement. "We're green. She has no idea the feed's rolling already."
Adrian, watching from afar, lifted a glass in silent salute. His pulse quickened as he saw Lottie ascend the small stage at the head of the room, the hum of conversation dimming into a restless hush. Lottie's heels struck soft against the marble as she reached the microphone, her gaze sweeping the crowd with cool, unflinching calm.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Lottie began, her voice smooth as glass, slicing through the tension like a blade. "Thank you for joining us tonight—for what I promise will be an evening to remember."
Evelyn's stomach clenched; the champagne flute in her hand tilted, the pale gold liquid trembling perilously close to the rim. She forced her lips into a serene smile, but the sharp click of her teeth as she clenched her jaw betrayed her. Her fingers tightened, the ring at her knuckle digging into skin. She let out a low breath, slow and deliberate, but it caught at the end, catching on the sharp edges of panic already needling under her skin.
Across the room, Price shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flitting from Evelyn to the stage. Robert, seated near the front, crossed one leg over the other, fingers steepled in front of his lips. His eyes, cold and unreadable, never left Lottie.
Lottie's next words fell into the silence like stones tossed into glassy water.
"Before we toast the future, I believe it's time we look at the contracts that built it."
A flicker of confusion rippled through the crowd, followed by a prickle of unease. Lottie's fingers traced the edge of the podium, her nails tapping lightly, a steady heartbeat against the growing tension. Behind her, Mason handed over a thin folder—sleek, crisp, unassuming. But when she opened it, the silence in the room cracked.
"As some of you know," Lottie said, her tone deceptively mild, "certain agreements within the Hayes holdings were…optimized. Selectively. Contracts redrafted with subtle but devastating loopholes. Tonight, I believe it's time we all understand the magnitude of what's been hidden."
A sharp intake of breath echoed from the corner where Evelyn stood. Her grip faltered, the flute tipping, and a single drop of champagne slid down her knuckle before falling to the floor, delicate as a pinprick—and still, she heard it like a gunshot. For a moment, the room blurred at the edges. Her ears rang as she registered the ripple of whispers, the tightening of shoulders, the collective draw of attention away from her glow and toward Lottie's quiet command.
"Excuse me," Evelyn murmured under her breath, a smile frozen on her lips as she dipped her head toward a cluster of guests. Her steps, graceful as ever, carried her a half-meter back—but she felt the shift like a chasm opening beneath her.
As Lottie spoke, the room fell into a hush broken only by the faint scratch of pens, the muffled gasp from a board member, the sharp clink of a glass set down too hard. Evelyn's chest heaved, a delicate flutter of panic rising under her ribs. She caught Price's eye across the room, his face pale, his mouth a thin, grim line. His eyes flicked to Robert, then back to Evelyn, a silent warning pulsing between them. But Robert never moved, his stillness more pointed than any outburst.
Mason's voice murmured in Lottie's ear. "Gasps on every camera. We're live. Leo's feeding the split-screen."
In the corner, Amy's fingers clutched her phone, the screen flickering with a live feed. Her breath hitched as she watched Evelyn's world tilt, her eyes bright with an adrenaline-laced mix of triumph and dread. Her pulse raced as she took a shaky step closer, her fingers tightening around the device.
A sudden shattering noise cracked through the hush—the sound of a champagne flute slipping from Evelyn's fingers, striking the marble, exploding into a scatter of crystal shards. For a heartbeat, the room froze. All eyes turned.
Evelyn stood rigid, her hand lifted as if to catch the falling glass that was already gone. Her face was a perfect mask—almost. But the slight quiver at the corner of her mouth, the too-bright glisten in her eyes, the whiteness of her knuckles where they clenched her clutch—all betrayed the fracture. She lowered her hand slowly, exhaling through flared nostrils, her jaw flexing once, twice.
"Apologies," Evelyn murmured, her voice thin, almost too soft to carry. She crouched with graceful precision to gather the shards, the satin of her gown pooling around her, her fingers trembling as they brushed the glittering remnants. But the crowd had already shifted. Murmured conversations ignited like sparks in dry grass. Reporters edged closer, cameras lifted, the soft whine of zoom lenses slicing into the tension.
Lottie watched, her fingers light on the podium's edge. For a moment, a flicker of something—regret? recognition?—touched her gaze. But only for a moment. She drew in a slow breath, lifted her chin, and turned back to the audience.
"I invite you all to review these details for yourselves," she said calmly, lifting the folder slightly, the sheen of polished paper catching the chandelier's light. "Transparency is, after all, the foundation of trust."
Evelyn's chest squeezed, a sharp, breathless constriction, as the room erupted into motion. Voices rose, questions shot across the space, flashes burst like lightning. She rose slowly, the shards of crystal sliding from her palm, her breath ragged as she faced the oncoming storm. Her eyes darted, calculating, but every angle closed like a trap, every path bristling with cameras and whispers.
At the back of the room, Robert's voice cut sharply through the din. "We need to talk—now."
The words cracked like a whip, snapping Evelyn's head around. Her heart slammed against her ribs, her throat tightening so fiercely she thought she might choke on the air. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that voice, that look—Robert's eyes cold, unreadable, his mouth a hard line that offered no refuge.
Evelyn's pulse hammered, a desperate, panicked rhythm. She opened her mouth, but the words tangled, caught, died at the tip of her tongue. Her father was already striding toward the exit, Price in his wake, his gaze never flicking back to her.
Lottie exhaled, slow and quiet, her fingers loosening their grip on the podium. Mason's hand touched her shoulder briefly, a silent anchor as the world roared around them. Leo's voice murmured in her ear, a low thread of triumph. "We've got the media locked. She's center frame."
Amy's breath shuddered in her throat as she watched Evelyn turn, one half-step too slow, one flicker of hesitation too long. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the table, her heart a wild staccato as Evelyn stumbled back, caught in the flood of flashbulbs, the room's hungry gaze pinning her in place. Evelyn's lips parted, her fingers fluttering at her throat, the delicate sheen of sweat at her temple catching the light.
And somewhere, just beyond the whirl of voices and camera clicks, the faint, unmistakable sound of a clock echoed down the marble halls, ticking away the last seconds of a reign slipping into ruin.