Chapter 3 - The Screens Go BlackInside the lobby, the ambient jazz music cut out with a sharp electronic pop.
Conversation died instantly. The hundreds of elite guests, investors, and socialites mingling beneath the crystal chandeliers froze, turning their gaze toward the massive, ten-foot-tall LED display mounted behind the front desk—a screen normally reserved for promotional reels of luxury suites and Michelin-star dining.
Arthur Sterling had been mid-sentence, explaining a multi-million-dollar real estate expansion to a prospective Japanese investor, when the screen blinked violently.
The sleek promotional video vanished.
In its place, a high-definition, uncropped video began to play on a terrifying loop.
“Get out! People like you don't belong in a place like this!”
Victoria’s shrill, perfectly manicured voice echoed off the marble walls, amplified by the hotel's state-of-the-art surround sound system. The entire lobby watched in horrified silence as the video showed Victoria viciously striking my face, grabbing my hair, and dragging my bleeding hands across the gleaming floor just five minutes prior.
Gasps erupted from the crowd. Several socialites dropped their champagne flutes, the crystal shattering against the stone.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Arthur roared, his face instantly draining of color, turning a sickly, mottled gray. He spun around, glaring at the head of IT security, who stood trembling near the service doors. "Shut that screen off! Cut the power! Now!"
"I-I can't, sir!" the IT director stammered, frantically tapping away at his tablet. "The mainframe is locked! Every override code has been changed from an external source! We're completely locked out!"
Before Arthur could issue another command, the video feed on the massive screen shifted.
The footage of the assault faded into a legal document—scanned with official state seals, embossed watermarks, and clear, unmistakable typography.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF BEATRICE VALE. SECTION 14, PARAGRAPH C: PERPETUAL OWNERSHIP TRANSFER.
The text highlighted itself in glowing red light, zooming in on the signature line, where Beatrice Vale's handwriting was displayed alongside the legal registration number filed with the New York State Supreme Court.
Beneath the will, a second document appeared: a certified financial ledger displaying forty-two million dollars in unauthorized wire transfers from corporate accounts to private Swiss bank accounts registered under Victoria Vance.
The silence in the lobby was absolute, heavy, and suffocating.
Arthur Sterling turned slowly, his eyes wide with blind panic, scanning the crowd of stunned investors. His gaze swept past the glass doors of the entrance—and suddenly locked onto the sidewalk outside.
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Through the massive floor-to-ceiling glass windows, standing alone under the streetlights with her arms crossed and a cold, razor-sharp smile on her face, was me.
Charlotte Vale.
