The countdown hit zero, and the golden curtains of the Plaza ballroom were suddenly bathed in the harsh, unforgiving blue light of the projection screens.
Sloane’s smile faltered. The champagne glass in her hand trembled, just a fraction, sending tiny ripples across the surface of the liquid. The room’s laughter died down, replaced by the low, confused murmur of five hundred socialites. Richard stopped chuckling. The older man standing behind Sloane—her father, Arthur Kensington—stepped forward, his tuxedo jacket straining against his shoulders.
On the screen, a bank statement appeared. Then an email chain. Then a video file.
The frosting on my face was drying, tight and itchy against my skin, but I didn’t move. I kept my eyes locked on Sloane. She took a step forward, her burgundy dress rustling in the sudden quiet. “Cut the feed!” she hissed at the AV technician in the back of the room. “It’s a deepfake! She’s hacking the system! Call security!”
The crowd shifted. The elite of Manhattan didn’t like being lied to, but they hated a public scene even more. A few women in the front row clutched their pearls, whispering behind their hands.
“It’s not a hack, Sloane,” I said. My voice didn’t shake. It echoed through the dead-silent room, bouncing off the marble floors. “It’s the original metadata from the Kensington Collection files. The ones you claimed you designed in your dorm room three years ago.”
The screen shifted. The video began to play. It was a recording from my old studio. The audio was crystal clear, picking up every breath, every rustle of paper. On the screen, a younger Sloane was handing a thick envelope of cash to my former mentor.
‘Just sign the NDA, Clara,’ the video-Sloane said, her voice dripping with venom. ‘Or I’ll make sure you never work in this city again. The board already thinks you’re unstable. One more rumor, and you’re done.’
The crowd gasped. It was a collective, sharp intake of breath. The applause that had been meant for my humiliation was now entirely absent. The flashbulbs stopped popping. The only sound left was the hum of the projector and the quiet clinking of Sloane’s glass against her ring.
Arthur Kensington didn’t yell. He didn’t throw a drink. He just walked up to his daughter, his face pale and drawn. He took the champagne glass from her trembling hand and set it gently on a passing waiter’s tray.
“Security,” Arthur said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried across the entire ballroom. “Escort Ms. Kensington out. And cancel the morning launch.”
Sloane’s face drained of all color. She looked at me, the white cream still smeared across my chest, and realized she had lost everything. The foundation, the company, her family’s name. Two guards in black suits stepped through the crowd. They didn’t touch her, but they didn’t have to. She walked out on her own, her heels clicking against the marble floor, the sound echoing like a ticking clock until the heavy oak doors closed behind her.
I finally wiped the rest of the cream from my cheek. I walked to the bar, ordered a sparkling water, and watched the golden curtains close behind her.