Chapter 3 - The Ghost at the Banquet
The storm had cleared by the following evening, leaving the Las Vegas sky dark, crisp, and filled with brilliant desert stars.
The private terrace of the Hale Grand Resort was decorated with hundreds of white roses, glowing candles, and crystal wine glasses. Forty of the most powerful people in Nevada were in attendance: casino magnates, state gaming commissioners, corporate lawyers, and board members.
At the head of the long dining table stood my father, Richard Hale.
He wore a tailored black tuxedo with a black ribbon pinned to his lapel. Beside him, my mother, Evelyn, wore a stunning black velvet gown, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief as guests offered their hushed condolences.
Seth sat near the head of the table, sipping a 1942 Don Julio, leaning casually toward Senator Thomas, a key member of the gaming oversight committee.
"It’s an unimaginable tragedy, Senator," Seth said, his tone perfectly calibrated between grief and executive resolve. "Cara was... brilliant, but fragile. The pressure of taking over the empire was simply too much for her. My father and I are prepared to step into the leadership void to ensure our shareholders remain protected."
Senator Thomas nodded sympathetically. "A terrible loss, Seth. But leadership requires stability. You have my vote for the board confirmation tonight."
"To family legacy," Seth raised his glass.
"To family legacy," my father echoed, standing up and tapping a silver spoon against his champagne flute.
The murmuring across the terrace died down. The board members turned their attention to Richard.
"Friends, colleagues, esteemed partners," Richard began, his voice deep and solemn. "We gather tonight under a heavy shadow. My beloved daughter, Cara, was the light of our lives. Though her mind proved too delicate for the vast burdens of this company, her spirit will always wander these halls..."
BZZZZZT.
A sharp, high-pitched squelch echoed from the resort's master public address system.
The ambient classical music playing through the hidden patio speakers cut out abruptly.
Richard paused, frowning slightly toward the manager standing near the patio doors. "Fix that audio feed," Richard muttered under his breath.
The manager tapped his earpiece, looking confused. "Sir, the main AV system isn't responding. Someone has overridden the master control room from an external terminal."
Before Seth could stand up, the massive 85-inch digital display screens mounted along the terrace walls—which had been displaying a slideshow of smiling childhood photographs of me—went completely black.
A quiet hush fell over the forty guests.
Then, a single line of crisp, white text appeared on every screen:
LIVE FEED — RECOVERY ARCHIVE #0842TIMESTAMP: THURSDAY 11:12 PM — WEST TERRACE
Seth dropped his tequila glass. The crystal shattered against the stone floor, dark liquid splashing over his polished shoes.
"Turn that off!" Richard roared, his face flushing dark red. "Security! Shut down the main power grid now!"
Nobody moved. Because standing at the service entrance of the terrace, dressed in a sharp navy suit, holding a master control tablet, was Leo Martinez. And standing beside him were four uniformed officers from the Nevada State Gaming Control Board Enforcement Division.
The video on the screens began to play.
The 4K resolution was terrifyingly sharp.
The camera showed the west terrace bathed in moonlight. There I was, standing near the railing. There was my mother, steering the security guards away toward the ballroom. There was my father, closing the door and disabling the camera alerts on his mobile phone.
And there was Seth.
The entire terrace watched in horror as Seth walked up behind me, placed both hands on my shoulders, whispered something into my ear, and forcefully shoved my body over the steel rail into the black abyss below.
A collective, deafening gasp exploded from the guests.
Senator Thomas stumbled backward, knocking his chair over. Two female board members shrieked, covering their mouths.
"That... that's a deepfake!" Seth screamed, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, pathetic shriek as he backed away from the table. "That's fake footage! Someone hacked the server! Security, arrest that maintenance worker!"
"It isn't a fake, Seth," a voice echoed through the terrace speakers.
The double doors of the grand ballroom swung open.
May you like
The guests parted like the Red Sea.
I walked out onto the terrace.
