Chapter 6 - The Unveiling of the Record
The celebratory applause died instantly in the throats of the board members as Ethan walked slowly to the central multimedia lectern.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out his titanium smartphone, and connected it directly to the boardroom’s master 8K projection system.
The massive eighty-foot digital displays spanning the eastern wall flickered for a fraction of a second before illuminating in blinding high-definition resolution.
The audio recording captured in the Beacon Hill dining room thirty-six hours earlier boomed through the chamber’s surround-sound speakers with crystal-clear audio.
Arthur’s arrogant, slurred voice echoed from every ceiling speaker:
”First, we throw her and the brat onto the street. Then, we execute the corporate share transfer. By the time Ethan realizes what hit him, his entire tech empire will be under our absolute control.”
Then came Beatrice’s chilling, cruel chuckle on the recording:
”Tomorrow, once Ethan signs the master power of attorney, this pathetic drama ends. We’ll simply tell him Elena packed her bags and abandoned him.”
And finally, Cassandra’s mocking sneer reverberated across the dead-silent room:
”Let her eat the leftovers. A useless, penniless woman doesn't deserve a seat at a Thorne family table anyway.”
The thirty corporate directors, military defense liaisons, and Wall Street investors gasped in collective, horrified revulsion.
Several senior board members jumped out of their leather chairs, knocking over crystal water carafes as they backed away from the executive dais in utter disgust.
Arthur’s triumphant smile rotted into pure, paralyzing horror, the gold Montblanc pen slipping from his paralyzed fingers and shattering on the granite table.
Beatrice clutched her diamond necklace, her breath catching in her throat as her face turned an unnatural, ghastly shade of chalk white.
Cassandra dropped her phone, the glass screen cracking on the floor as she looked around the room in frantic, hyperventilating panic.
“Ethan… what… what is this sick, twisted fabrication?” Arthur stammered, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic squeak.
“This is an unlawful deepfake recording manufactured by our corporate competitors to ruin our family!”
Ethan did not raise his voice; he tapped the lectern again, switching the wall displays to high-resolution 4K video feeds.
The screens displayed the cold, windowless pantry in the Beacon Hill brownstone, showing the two thin blankets on the bare wooden floorboards.
Beside the pantry footage were the high-resolution medical scans of Elena’s bruised wrists and five-year-old Toby’s fractured, untreated malnutrition charts.
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“This wasn't manufactured by competitors, Arthur,” Ethan said, his voice dropping into a register of pure, icy venom that made the room freeze.
“This was recorded inside my own home, where you starved my pregnant wife and forced my five-year-old son to sleep on bare planks while you drank vintage wine.”
