Part 2: They forced me to sit next to a trash can at my own daughter's wedding, completely unaware that I knew the groom was using a fake name.

The audio cut off with a definitive snap.

The silence that followed was suffocating. You could hear the hum of the air conditioning. You could hear the clatter of a server dropping a silver tray in the service corridor.

Eleanor Montgomery—or whoever she was—leaped up from the table, grabbed her crocodile-skin handbag, and tried to slip quietly toward the side exit. But my brother Tom was already there. Tom stepped directly into her path, his broad shoulders blocking the double doors, his arms folded across his chest like iron bars.

"Arthur Montgomery" bolted toward the terrace, but two uniformed state troopers, who had been waiting quietly in the lobby since six o’clock, pushed the glass doors open and stepped inside, their hands resting deliberately on their utility belts.

"Nobody leaves the main hall," one of the troopers announced, his voice slicing through the paralysis. "Stay in your seats."

Albert stood on the stage, chest heaving like a trapped animal. The veneer of wealth, class, and effortless power had dissolved entirely. Sweat poured down his temples, carving streaks through his expensive bronze makeup.

"It's a lie!" Albert yelled, waving his arms wildly at the audience. "It's an AI deepfake! Anyone can make an audio clip with software! You people know me! Senator Hastings knows my family! Chloe, baby, look at me!"

He reached out to grab Chloe’s arm.

"Don't touch me!" Chloe screamed.

It was the loudest, most guttural sound I had ever heard come out of my daughter. She stumbled back from him, her hands clawing at her veil, ripping it free from her hair. Pins pulled at her scalp, but she didn't seem to feel it. The delicate lace tore as she threw it to the ground.

"You said your parents had an estate in Milan," Chloe wept, her body trembling violently. "You said... you said your father was sick! You said you needed my mother's trust fund to clear the inheritance tax so we could buy the farm upstate!"

Albert’s expression hardened. When a narcissist realizes the game is lost, the mask doesn't just slip—it is discarded with venom.

"Shut up, Chloe," he hissed, the microphone in his hand still live, sending his sneer echoing across every wall. "You stupid little girl. You really thought someone like me would fall for a pathetic, insecure teacher from the suburbs? You were desperate. You were practically begging someone to sweep you off your feet so you didn't end up like your pathetic old man, scraping grease off power lines until you drop dead of a stroke!"

A collective gasp of horror rose from the tables.

Albert tossed the microphone to the floor. It hit with a deafening screech of feedback. He spun toward the back exit, intent on bolting through the kitchen—and that was when he stopped dead.