Chapter 3 - THE FAMILY COUNCIL OF WARWhile Sophie rested peacefully in her hospital room, my phone buzzed violently on the bedside table.
Incoming Call: Mother.
I stared at the screen, watching the flashing name of the woman who had watched her granddaughter bleed onto an ivory carpet and told me not to make a scene. I let it ring out. Three seconds later, it started again. Then a barrage of text messages flooded in.
Mother: Evelyn, answer this instant. Mother: Your father has spoken to the hotel management. They are calling off the police report. You need to bring Sophie back to the hotel discreetly through the service entrance to apologize to Preston. Father: Don't be a fool, Evelyn. We've arranged a statement for the press claiming Sophie tripped over the menu stand. Clean up this mess before it ruins Preston's corporate merger.
I didn't reply to a single word. Instead, I forwarded every message directly to Detective Vance's secure email portal, along with a timestamped log of my parents' financial ties to the Whitmore Hotel's board of directors.
"They're trying to sweep it under the rug," Detective Vance said, stepping back into the room after taking a call in the corridor. "The hotel manager just called my precinct claiming the security footage was 'corrupted due to a technical glitch.'"
I let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Corrupted? Tell him his cloud backup servers are hosted out of Frankfurt, and I downloaded the uncompressed 4K master file three minutes after the ambulance left."
"You already downloaded it?"
"Detective, my ex-husband is a lead cybersecurity architect for federal defense systems. When we divorced, I made sure my tech game stayed sharp," I said smoothly, sliding my phone back into my pocket. "Preston thinks he's the smartest guy in the room because he inherited our father's real estate firm. But he's an amateur playing chess against a grandmaster."
"Alright, Mrs. Vance," Detective Vance said, snapping his notebook shut with a sharp thwack. "Here is what we are going to do. Your family thinks they control the narrative. Let's let them keep thinking that until it's too late for them to run."
"What do you mean?"
"Your brother's wedding reception is still going strong. The guests are drinking champagne, eating expensive caviar, and celebrating a union built on lies," Detective Vance said, his eyes gleaming with professional satisfaction. "How would you like to crash the after-party?"
I looked through the glass window at Sophie. Her chest rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm. The white bandage around her head was clean and secure.
May you like
"Crash it?" I shook my head, a dark, fierce resolve taking root in my soul. "No, Detective. We aren't going to crash it."
"We're going to broadcast it."
