Ch.64: The Public Court

The green room smells of stale coffee and expensive hairspray.

I sit in a leather chair that is too soft, my hands folded in my lap. I am wearing a black dress, high-necked, long-sleeved. A black silk veil covers my head, obscuring my face completely.

Thorne paces the small room. He is wearing his dress blues, his arm still in a sling. He looks like a caged tiger.

"They're going to try to ambush you," he warns, checking his watch for the tenth time. "Sterling's people have been leaking stories all morning. The 'Jealous Wife' angle. The 'Mental Instability' angle."

"Let them," I say. My voice is muffled by the silk.

"The host, Sarah Jenkins... she's tough. She won't pull punches."

"Good."

The door opens. A production assistant with a headset peeks in. She looks terrified.

"Mrs. Vane? We're live in two minutes."

I stand up. My legs are weak, but I lock my knees. I will not collapse. Not today.

We walk down the hallway. The studio is a cavern of darkness, punctuated by blinding islands of light. Cables snake across the floor like black vipers.

I step onto the stage.

The audience falls silent. A hush that feels heavy, suffocating. They are looking at the woman in the veil. The Black Widow.

I sit opposite Sarah Jenkins. She is polished, perfect. Her blonde hair is helmet-stiff. Her makeup is flawless.

She looks at me with a mixture of curiosity and pity. But mostly, she looks at the ratings.

"Three, two, one," the floor manager counts down. He points a finger.

The red light on the camera blinks on.

"Good evening," Sarah says to the lens. "Tonight, an exclusive. The woman at the center of the Vane Institute tragedy. The wife of the late Dr. Aris Vane. Elena Vane."

She turns to me.

"Mrs. Vane. Thank you for being here."

I nod. I don't speak yet.

"It has been four days since your husband's estate burned to the ground," she begins. "Police reports indicate that you were found on the scene with a weapon. There are rumors of a hostage situation involving your daughter. And sources close to the investigation suggest that Dr. Vane was afraid for his life in the days leading up to the fire."

She pauses for effect.

"Did you kill your husband, Elena?"

The question hangs in the air. A trap baited with accusation.

Thorne shifts in the wings, his hand gripping the curtain.

I lean forward. The microphone clipped to my collar picks up the rustle of the silk.

"My husband is dead," I say. My voice is raspy, damaged by smoke and screaming. "But I didn't kill him. His greed did."

"Greed?" Sarah presses. "Dr. Vane was a philanthropist. He rebuilt the faces of orphans. He was a saint to many."

"He was a monster," I say. "He built a prison in his basement. He experimented on living people. He sold identities to the highest bidder."

Sarah frowns. This isn't the script she was given.

"These are serious allegations, Mrs. Vane. Do you have proof?"

"I gave the proof to the police," I say. "But his investors... the people who paid for his work... they are trying to bury it. They are suing me. They are threatening my child."

"Investors?" Sarah asks, skepticism coloring her tone. "Are you suggesting a conspiracy?"

"I am stating a fact."

"Mrs. Vane," Sarah softens her voice, adopting a tone of condescending sympathy. "We understand you have been through a trauma. A car accident, months ago? That’s why you’ve been in hiding?"

"There was no car accident," I say.

"But your injuries," she gestures to the veil. "The reports say you were disfigured in a crash. That your husband was trying to fix you. That you... couldn't accept the results."

This is Sterling’s narrative. The ungrateful, vanity-obsessed wife.

"Is that why you're hiding your face?" she asks. "Because you're ashamed?"

I stand up.

The producer signals frantically to cut to commercial, but Sarah waves him off. She smells blood.

"I am not ashamed," I say.

I reach up.

My fingers find the edge of the veil.

"You want to know what Aris Vane did?" I ask the camera. "You want to see his masterpiece?"

"Mrs. Vane, please," Sarah says, realizing too late that she has lost control of the interview. "If the injuries are graphic, we need to warn the view—"

I pull the silk away.

It slides off my head like water. It pools on the floor.

The studio gasps.

It isn't a singular sound. It is a collective intake of breath that sucks the oxygen out of the room.

Sarah Jenkins recoils physically. She presses herself back into her chair, her hand flying to her mouth. The cameraman's hand shakes, the frame wobbling for a split second before he zooms in.

They see it.

They see the lidless right eye, staring out from a socket of red, wet muscle. They see the teeth exposed by the missing lips, locked in a permanent, skeletal grin. They see the patchwork of raw nerves and scar tissue where my cheeks used to be.

I am not disfigured. I am erased.

"He didn't try to fix me," I say to the lens. "He stole me."

I point to the camera.

"He cut my face off while I was alive. While I was paralyzed. And he gave it to someone else."

Silence.

Absolute, dead silence.

Then, I lean closer.

"And the people who paid him? The investors? They want to do it again."

I look at the red light.

"They want you to think I'm a villain. They want you to look away."

I hold the gaze of millions of people.

"Don't look away."

I stand there for ten seconds. Twenty.

I let them see every inch of the horror. I let them feel the phantom pain of the scalpel.

Then, slowly, deliberately, I pick up the veil.

I don't put it back on.

I drop it on the chair.

"My name is Elena Vane," I say. "And I am done hiding."

I walk off the stage.

Sarah Jenkins sits there, stunned, unable to speak. The "On Air" light is still burning red.

Backstage, Thorne grabs me. He is grinning. A fierce, predatory grin.

"You did it," he says.

He holds up his phone. It is lighting up with notifications. Twitter. Facebook. News alerts.

It’s a tidal wave.

"They aren't talking about the jealous wife anymore," he says.

He shows me the screen.

**# JusticeForElena** is trending worldwide.

**# TheVaneHorror** is second.

Sterling’s narrative didn't just crack. It shattered.

I look at the monitor in the green room. They are replaying the moment. The reveal.

The world gasped. And then they got angry.