Chapter 3 - The Collapse of the Empire"Shut it off! Turn that screen off right now!" Richard shrieked, losing all remaining shreds of his corporate composure.
He lunged forward, abandoning all pretense of dignity, charging up the wooden steps like a madman. His expensive suit jacket flapped wildly around his arms. His face was twisted into a mask of pure, murderous hatred. He wasn't thinking about public image anymore; he was thinking about survival. If those files stayed on that screen for another minute, federal regulators would have enough probable cause to raid his corporate headquarters before sunset.
"Dad, stop!" Ethan screamed, trying to pull his father back by his sleeve. "You're making it worse! Everyone's filming!"
"Get out of my way!" Richard roared, shoving Ethan aside so hard my brother tumbled down the wooden steps, landing hard on his hands and knees against the stone pavement.
The security guards finally snapped out of their stupor. Three heavy-set men in uniform intercepted my father just three feet away from the podium, tackling him around the waist and slamming him down onto the wooden floorboards with a heavy thud.
"Get off me! Do you know who I am?!" Richard roared, thrashing wildly, his arms pinned behind his back. His pristine gray tie was pulled askew, and his expensive glasses flew off his face, shattering into pieces against the stage steps. "I am Richard Bennett! I own half the real estate in this city! Let me up!"
"Sir, stay down or we will use restraints," the lead security officer barked, pressing a knee firmly into the small of my father’s back.
My mother shrieked, running toward the stage and throwing herself over my pinned father like a tragic melodrama heroine. "Help! Police! They're assaulting my husband! Somebody call 911!"
"I already did, Mrs. Bennett," a calm, authoritative voice spoke from the side of the stage.
We all turned. Stepping out from the shadow of the brick archway was Detective Miller of the city’s financial crimes division, flanked by two uniformed city police officers. He flashed a shiny silver badge in the bright afternoon sunlight.
"Richard Bennett," Detective Miller announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the courtyard. "You are under arrest for corporate fraud, tax evasion, and obstruction of justice. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
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The flashbulbs didn't stop. If anything, the intensity doubled. Cameras clicked in a continuous, deafening rhythm. Drone cameras from local news outlets, drawn by the sudden spike in online social media traffic, buzzed overhead like angry hornets, capturing every single humiliating detail of the Bennett family's downfall.
My mother froze, her hands hovering over my father’s back. Her mouth worked silently, like a fish out of water. The realization was finally sinking in: the performance was over. The stage lights had blown, the curtain had been ripped down, and there was no script left to read.
