Eliza Pace POV
I observed the crowd's reaction, their whispers turning from shock to disdain. The weight of public opinion pressed down on Kayson, his composure visibly cracking.
A murmur rippled through the assembled crowd of the city's elite. Eyes darted from the screen to Kayson, then back again.
"Is that... is that Kayson's ex?" someone whispered.
"Looks like it," another replied, a smirk in his voice. "Though I can't quite make out the guy. The build looks... familiar, though."
A man sitting nearby, a sycophantic business rival of Kayson's, spoke up loudly. "Nonsense! Everyone knows how much Mr. Alexander despises that woman. He practically destroyed her for hurting Miss Pace. He wouldn't be caught dead with her."
The crowd, ever eager to curry favor with the powerful Kayson Alexander, nodded in agreement. The whispers turned from suspicion to mockery, all directed at the woman on the screen.
"Look at her, throwing herself at him like that."
"Disgusting. And after what she did."
Each snort of laughter, each cutting remark about Camille, was a hammer blow to Kayson's composure. His face, which had been pale with shock, was now flushing a deep, mottled red.
He clenched his fists, the tendons in his neck standing out like steel cables. He leaned down, his voice a low, desperate hiss meant only for me.
"Eliza, stop this. Please. Turn it off."
"Turn it off?" I feigned innocence. "Why? It's just a bit of fun. A reminder of what happens to people who cross us."
"This isn't a game!" he growled. "She's... she's been through enough. I'll deal with her. I'll make sure she pays for this, for embarrassing you. I'll do it again. I'll do worse. Just... make it stop."
You'll deal with her. The irony was so thick I could have choked on it. He would "deal with her" by taking her home and comforting her, by promising her he'd punish me for this little stunt.
I smiled, a slow, deliberate curving of my lips. "Alright," I said sweetly. "If you insist."
I gave a subtle nod to the technician in the control booth. The screen went black.
Kayson let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for an eternity. He straightened his tie, a flicker of relief in his eyes. He thought it was over. He thought he had won.
He was wrong.
Suddenly, a spotlight hit the center of the stage. It was Camille, looking disheveled and clearly distressed as she was escorted to a chair by two security personnel.
She looked up, her eyes wide with terror, and met Kayson's gaze.
A collective gasp went through the audience. The sight of her, so broken and pathetic, ignited something primal and ugly in the room. The mockery turned into a predatory roar.
The crowd, witnessing Camille's public disgrace, erupted into a cacophony of whispers and judgment.
I turned to the crowd, my voice cutting through the noise. "Since Mr. Alexander's private affairs have become a public spectacle," I announced, "let the truth of them be judged. Let this be a symbol of what happens when trust is betrayed."
For a moment, there was only the sound of the frenzied crowd. Then, Kayson's control finally, spectacularly, snapped.
"ENOUGH!" he roared, his voice cracking with fury and desperation. He pointed a trembling finger at the screen, which was now displaying a still image of Camille's terrified face. "THAT MAN IN THE VIDEO... IT'S ME!"
