The Real Feed

Elena didn't move as the guards closed in, her gaze fixed on Constance, who stood like a statue of salt on the dais. The low-frequency hum from the speakers intensified, vibrating the silverware on the tables and the crystal in the guests' hands. It was the sound of a system being hijacked, a digital predator tearing through the Hawthorne firewalls.

For three seconds, the ballroom was a vacuum of sound. No one breathed. No one moved. The guards paused, their hands inches from Elena’s skin, as if they could feel the shift in the room's electrical current.

Then, the audio started.

It wasn't a glitch, and it wasn't static. It was the Annex feed, crystal clear and terrifyingly intimate. The guests leaned forward, their faces a collective mask of confusion that rapidly melted into shock as the first voice cut through the air.

*"She knows everything, Mother. The accounts, the transfers, the identities. She’s not going to stop."*

It was Julian’s voice, amplified to a deafening volume. It wasn't the slurred, defeated tone he had used at the bar; it was sharp, panicked, and undeniably real.

*"Then we stop her,"* Constance’s voice followed, colder than the ice in the mimosa buckets. It was the voice of the woman standing on the dais, but the grace was gone, replaced by a predatory calculatedness. *"We’ve done it before, Julian. Isabel thought she could play hero too. Look where that got her."*

A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom, a wave of sound that nearly drowned out the speakers. Constance’s face went from pale to translucent. She reached for the microphone stand to steady herself, her gloved hand shaking.

*"But Elena is an accountant,"* Julian’s voice continued. *"She’s documented it all. The offshore laundry, the 'medical expenses' that are actually my debts. If she gets to the Feds—"*

*"She won't get to anyone,"* Constance interrupted. *"The St. Jude's order is signed. By the time the auditors arrive, she'll be legally incompetent and chemically compliant. We'll frame her for the discrepancies, just like we did with the last one. She’s the Administrator, Julian. It’s her signature on every fraudulent loan."*

The audio feed looped, Julian’s panicked breathing filling the room like a physical presence. Elena stood in the center of it all, her head held high, the lavender dress no longer a shroud but a uniform. She watched the elite of Charleston—the judges, the bankers, the donors—turn their heads as one to look at the woman in cream lace.

Constance didn't scream. She didn't deny it. She simply stared at the speakers, her eyes wide with the realization that the feed went both ways. The glass of vintage champagne she had been holding for her final toast slipped from her numb fingers.

The crystal shattered on the marble dais, the liquid splashing over the hem of her lace gown like a bloodstain.

The crowd gasped. Constance dropped her champagne.