Chapter 6 - The Public Execution of a Reputation
The video that Leo had hacked from Lauren’s kitchen began to play on the giant projector screen.
The high-definition audio, cleaned and boosted, blasted through the ballroom's state-of-the-art surround-sound speakers.
“...I’ll give him one of these 'special' treats at the pool... we’ll call the state... the kid will be in our house by the weekend... we access the trust, pay off your gambling debts to the cartel...”
The silence in the ballroom was absolute. You could have heard a pin drop on the plush carpet.
On screen, Lauren was clearly visible, smiling as she dropped the liquid tranquilizer into the gummy mold, talking casually about ruining my life and poisoning my seven-year-old son.
Lauren stared at the screen, her face turning an ash-gray color. Her hands began to shake so violently she dropped her mimosa, the crystal glass shattering on the marble floor, orange juice and champagne splashing over her pristine white shoes.
“No,” she gasped, looking around the room at her friends, her peers, the people whose validation she had spent her entire life buying. “No, that’s... that’s a deepfake! It’s AI! It’s a fabrication!”
“It’s a direct feed from your own secure kitchen camera, Mrs. Whitmore,” Arthur Vance said, stepping forward. “The digital signature is authenticated. And we have already sent the raw files to the federal prosecutor’s office, along with a complete record of your husband’s offshore bank accounts.”
The crowd erupted into chaotic whispers. People began to pull out their phones, filming the screen, filming Lauren, filming the utter destruction of the town's golden couple.
Julian Whitmore, who had been sitting at the table trying to look invisible, suddenly stood up and bolted for the side exit. But the doors swung open, and three federal agents in windbreakers stepped into the room, blocking his path.
“Julian Whitmore,” the lead agent said. “You are under arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud, money laundering, and child endangerment.”
Julian fell to his knees, weeping, as they slapped the handcuffs on him.
Lauren looked around wild-eyed, like a trapped animal. She looked at me, her eyes filled with a psychotic rage. She grabbed her $20,000 Birkin bag from the table and lunged at me, swinging it like a weapon.
“You ruined my life!” she screamed, her face contorted in an ugly, manic mask. “You poor, pathetic bitch! I was supposed to have everything! That money belongs to us!”
I didn’t step back. As she swung the bag, I reached out, grabbed her wrist with a nurse’s grip—firm and unbreakable—and twisted it down. She gasped in pain, dropping the heavy bag. It fell to the floor, spilling its contents: expensive cosmetics, car keys, and a small, plastic baggie containing three purple, star-shaped gummies.
I looked down at the baggie, then up at her.
“You dropped your supplement, Lauren,” I said, my voice ice cold.
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Detective Harris stepped out from the crowd, his face grim. He didn't look at me with pity anymore; he looked at me with respect. He walked over to Lauren, forced her arms behind her back, and clicked the handcuffs into place.
“Lauren Whitmore,” Harris said. “You are under arrest for the attempted murder of Noah Bennett.”
