Chapter 5: The Climax on the Marble Floor
Victoria didn't walk across the floor; she lunged. The expensive heels of her shoes clicked frantically against the marble as she abandoned the dais, parting the stunned crowd like a charging predator. People scattered before her, their tuxedoed shoulders pressing back against the tables as they watched the horrifying spectacle unfold. Her face was twisted into a mask of furious desperation, every trace of her elegant charity-gala persona erased by the raw, primal need to silence the proof before the video reached the second minute mark—where her face appeared clearly on camera signing the physical documents.
I didn't run. I stood my ground right at the edge of the velvet drape, my yellow floral dress bright against the dark fabric behind me, holding the black smartphone out slightly in front of me like a shield.
"Get out of my sight!" Victoria shrieked, her voice cracking with an enraged, frantic pitch that echoed off the crystal chandeliers. She lunged forward, her long fingernails clawing at the air, and furiously snatched the phone right out of my hands.
The sudden momentum threw her off balance. Her heel caught on the stem of a spilled champagne glass lying near the base of the marble pillar. Her arms flailed wildly as she tried to recover, her gold sequin gown catching the light in a blinding flash of yellow-gold as she stumbled backward. The crowd gasped in unison, several women pressing their gloved hands to their mouths as Victoria lost her footing entirely and crashed hard onto the polished marble floor of the banquet hall.
A heavy thud echoed through the room, followed by the dry rattle of diamond jewelry hitting the stone.
I didn't flinch. I stood calmly over her, my hands resting naturally at my sides, while the projector screen behind us continued to roll, displaying the crystal-clear footage of her signing the fraudulent ledgers.
Victoria lay sprawled on the cold marble floor, her sophisticated updo completely ruined, strands of hair sticking to her damp forehead. She looked up at me, her chest heaving as she gasped for air, her eyes wide with sheer panic and terror. The woman who had ruled high society with an iron fist for three years was now looking up from the floor at an eight-year-old girl in a yellow summer dress.
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I slowly turned my head just a fraction toward the camera lens stationed by the press gallery, letting a subtle, knowing smirk touch the corners of my lips while the projector screen glowed brightly behind us.
"Checkmate," I whispered.
