Chapter 2 - The Ballroom Echoes
Warm liquid pooled instantly behind my left ear, dripping down my neck and soaking into the collar of my white silk blouse.
A sharp, ringing tone vibrated inside my skull as the ballroom swayed before my eyes.
A collective gasp ripped through the two hundred guests. Utter silence followed, broken only by the sound of my glass hitting the carpet and shattering.
“Dad!” Madison screamed, though she didn't step forward to help me. She stepped back, clutching her handbag to her chest to protect her dress from my blood.
My father stood over me, his chest heaving, the silver cake stand still clutched in his trembling right hand. A single drop of my blood clung to its ornate rim.
“Look what you made me do!” he snarled, his voice carrying clearly across the silent room. “You always have to be difficult! You always have to ruin family moments!”
I pressed my hand against the side of my head, feeling the jagged, throbbing laceration. The room spun, but the sudden adrenaline surging through my veins cut through the dizziness like a laser.
I stood up slowly, using the edge of the table to steady myself. The white tablecloth was ruined, stained dark red where I had slumped over.
Mom grabbed a napkin, rushing toward me with a panicked look, but she wasn't looking at my wound—she was looking at the guests, who were pulling out their smartphones.
“Chloe, sit down!” Mom hissed under her breath. “We’ll get you ice in the back! Don’t make a scene! People are filming!”
I looked past her, directly at my father, whose knuckles were still white around the cake stand.
“You hit me because I wouldn't let you steal my car,” I said, my voice steady, amplified by the hotel microphone sitting on the podium three feet away.
The crowd gasped again.
“Shut your mouth, Chloe!” Dad warned, stepping forward, his voice low and toxic. “You walk out that door right now, and you are cut off from this family forever!”
I reached into my blazer pocket with my uninjured hand and pulled out my phone. My vision was double, but I knew my phone’s layout by heart.
“I was going to wait until Monday, Dad,” I said into the microphone.
The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged ballroom.
“What are you talking about?” he demanded, his confidence wavering for a split second as he noticed the hotel manager frantically making a call by the main entrance.
I tapped my screen, unlocking a secure cloud storage folder, and held the phone up toward the nearest table of business associates—men who had invested millions in my father’s company, Caldwell Construction.
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“I am talking about the twelve million dollars you embezzled from the Riverfront Development project,” I said, my voice ringing out with terrifying clarity. “I am talking about the fake shell companies—Apex Logistics and Vanguard Materials—that you set up using my stolen identity to hide your gambling debts in Macau.”
Dad’s face went from furious red to ghost white in a fraction of a second.
