Chapter 7 - The Unscheduled Program
The giant screen didn't play the high-gloss montage of sizzling steaks and slow-motion wine pours.
Instead, a stark, high-definition photo flashed onto the display, spanning thirty feet across. It was a macro-photograph of Opal Finch's gold wheat brooch. Every detail was magnified to monstrous proportions: the hand-carved grain, the patina of fifty years of kitchen steam, and, circled in bright neon red, the bent golden kernel at the tip.
Beneath the image, in clean, white typography, sat a copy of a receipt from *Cartier & Co., 5th Avenue*:
**Item: Pin Clasp Repair & Appraisal.**
**Client: Brett Sterling.**
**Instructions: Do not return to Mrs. Audrey Finch. Remount with diamond accent and gift-box for Miss S. Collins.**
A collective, sharp intake of air swept through three hundred people. It sounded like a wave breaking over gravel.
Brett’s smile vanished. His arms froze mid-gesture. He turned his head slowly, mechanically, staring at the screen as if looking at an unexploded bomb that had just rolled across his shoes.
"What is this?" Brett muttered into the hot microphone, his voice echoing across the ballroom with horrific clarity. "Tech booth. Cut the feed. Cut the damn feed!"
The screen flickered, but the feed didn't cut.
Instead, the speakers rumbled to life. Not with music, but with the crisp, unmistakable audio of a phone call recorded through a hands-free car system. Brett’s voice filled every corner of the room:
*"She’s an idiot, Sierra. She thinks she’s indispensable because she wrote the original sauces. She sits in that test kitchen covered in flour while we run the world. The minute Vance signs the equity agreement, I’m triggering the founder buyout clause. She gets two million and the suburban house, and we take the brand international."*
Then came Sierra’s voice, clear as ice, laughing:
*"What about the kid? Leo isn't stupid, Brett."*
*"Leo will do what he’s told,"* Brett’s recorded voice replied coldly. *"He likes private school and summer camps. He’ll fall in line once the checks start coming from our joint account."*
In the audience, women covered their mouths. Men who had been smiling at Brett ten seconds ago looked down at their plates in visceral disgust. Arthur Vance’s face looked as though it had been carved from grey granite; he slowly reached up, took off his glasses, and set them down on the white tablecloth with deliberate finality.
Sierra was frozen at the base of the stage. Her face was no longer radiant; it was the color of skim milk. Her hand dropped away from the brooch as if the gold had suddenly turned white-hot.
May you like
"Cut it!" Brett screamed, abandoning all pretension of dignity, lunging away from the podium toward the wings. "I said shut it down, you incompetent bastards! Turn off the power!"
***
