Chapter 7 - The Security Footage
Terence did not raise his voice. He simply glanced to the side of the stage where Marcus Cole stood beside the hotel’s master audiovisual console. Beside Marcus stood the hotel’s head of security, pale-faced and visibly shaking, holding a master flash drive.
"Marcus," Terence commanded softly. "Main screens."
"No!" Preston bellowed, lunging toward the stage stairs. "Do not touch that feed! I own a minority share in this hotel chain! I forbid it!"
Two of Terence’s private security officers immediately stepped into Preston’s path, their burly frames blocking him with the immovable weight of stone statues.
The ballroom lights automatically dimmed. Above the stage, the two colossal, forty-foot high-definition LED screens—originally set up to broadcast a promotional video detailing the Pemberton-Washington merger—flickered to life.
A high-definition security camera angle appeared on screen. It showed the VIP rotunda, timestamped 7:52 PM.
In crystal-clear 4K resolution, the room watched as Irene Washington sat patiently in her wheelchair near the velvet rope, her hands neatly folded over her purse. Then came Victoria Pemberton, marching into frame with two junior hostesses.
The audio feed, captured by the rotunda’s directional microphones, crackled through the ballroom’s sound system with horrific, pristine fidelity.
*"What is this decrepit garbage doing blocking my entrance?"* Victoria’s voice boomed through the ballroom.
On screen, Irene could be heard answering softly: *"I’m waiting for my son, dear. Terence Washington. He’ll be here shortly."*
*"Terence Washington?"* Victoria’s recorded laughter was harsh, mocking, and ugly. *"You think a titan of finance came out of a ghetto womb like yours? Look at you. You smell like welfare and wet dog. Get this eyesore out of my sight before the photographers arrive."*
Then came the climax. The screens showed Irene politely attempting to hand Victoria her VIP invitation card. Victoria violently smacked the card away, raised her full champagne flute, and emptied it directly over Irene’s head. And when Irene gasped and reflexively raised a trembling hand to shield her eyes, Victoria’s right hand whipped across Irene’s face with a sickening, audible *CRACK*.
The entire ballroom erupted into collective gasps, cries of horror, and shouts of outrage.
*"Throw her on the loading dock with the rest of the garbage,"* Victoria’s recorded voice ordered the terrified staff on screen. *"If she’s still breathing when the party ends, call animal control."*
The screen went black.
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The lights came up.
Victoria stood in the center aisle, her skin dead-white, her mouth open in a silent scream of absolute ruin. Several guests near her physically stood up and walked away, leaving an empty ten-foot circle of shame around her.
