The heavy mahogany doors of the stadium’s press hall muffled the crowd, but the microphone feed echoed perfectly through the lobby speakers.
"Jasper, over here! Have the police given any final updates on the search?"
A flurry of camera shutters fired in rapid succession.
"Please," a soft, feminine voice pleaded through the audio feed. "Jasper is barely holding it together. We ask for your respect during this unimaginable tragedy."
That was Zara Monroe.
Hollywood’s current darling, and apparently, my grieving fiancé’s rock.
"I just need to know," another reporter shouted over the din. "Jasper, how are you coping with the loss of your fiancée just weeks before the wedding?"
A long, agonizing pause stretched over the speakers.
I leaned against the cool plaster wall of the corridor, crossing my arms.
"Mia was my everything," Jasper Crawford finally choked out.
His voice cracked flawlessly on the second syllable. A masterclass in acting from a professional quarterback.
"When they found the wreckage..." Jasper sniffled, the sound amplified by the stadium's sound system. "When they told me she didn't make it out of the water... a part of me died with her."
"He hasn't eaten in three days," Zara added, her tone thick with manufactured sorrow.
"I'm here for him," Zara continued. "Mia was my dearest friend. I promised her I'd always look out for him."
I smoothed a wrinkle from my tailored beige blazer.
"We're setting up a foundation in her honor," Jasper announced, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "The Mia Lawson Memorial Fund."
A collective sigh of sympathy rippled through the press corps.
"I wrote something for her," Jasper said. Papers rustled over the microphone. "I wanted to read it today. To let the world know the kind of angel we lost."
"Go ahead, Jasper. Take your time," a journalist encouraged gently.
"Mia," Jasper began, his tone trembling. "If you can hear me from up there..."
I pushed off the wall.
It was time to give the grieving widower his miracle.
I shoved the heavy double doors open.
They swung wide, slamming against the interior walls with a deafening crack that severed Jasper's sentence in half.
The stadium press hall was packed shoulder-to-shoulder. Hundreds of reporters, camera operators, and PR executives crammed into the space. Every major network had a lens pointed at the stage.
At the sound of the doors hitting the wall, the back row of journalists turned.
A woman in a grey suit dropped her voice recorder. It clattered against the hardwood floor.
"What the hell?" a cameraman muttered, lowering his rig.
I walked down the center aisle.
My flats made absolutely no sound on the plush red carpet, yet the room parted for me like the Red Sea.
"Is that..." someone whispered to my left.
"No way. The police said the river current pulled her under."
"Get a shot of this! Pan the camera, now!"
The initial confusion morphed into absolute chaos. Flashes exploded around me, blindingly bright, but I kept my eyes fixed on the stage.
Jasper stood behind the podium.
He wore a sharp black suit. A black tie. A tiny white rose pinned to his lapel.
His hands gripped the edges of the wooden stand so hard his knuckles shone white. The eulogy papers slipped from his fingers, fluttering down to the stage floor like dead leaves.
Zara stood mere inches from him. Her hand rested intimately on his lower back.
She wore a tasteful, modest black dress. Her eyes, expertly lined with waterproof mascara, widened into saucers.
I stopped ten feet from the edge of the stage.
The silence that fell over the room was absolute. Even the camera shutters ceased for a split second.
"You were saying?" I asked.
My voice carried without a microphone.
Jasper’s mouth opened, but only a pathetic, strangled wheeze came out. The color drained from his face, leaving him the shade of old parchment.
"Mia?" Zara gasped, her hand flying to her throat. "Oh my god. You're alive?"
"Surprised to see me, Zara?" I tilted my head. "Or just disappointed?"
"Mia, sweetheart!" Zara took a step forward, her actress instincts kicking in. She forced a watery smile. "We thought we lost you! The coast guard said—"
"Save the performance," I cut her off. "The cameras are rolling, but I'm not buying tickets."
Jasper finally found his vocal cords. He trembled, his broad shoulders shaking under the tailored suit.
"How?" he croaked.
"How did I survive the crash?" I challenged calmly. "Or how did I find out you cut the brake lines on my car?"
The press hall erupted.
Shouts, gasps, and frantic questions overlapped into a deafening roar. Microphones were thrust in my direction.
"Ms. Lawson! Are you accusing Jasper Crawford of attempted murder?"
"Jasper, did you tamper with the vehicle?"
"Zara, were you aware of this?"
Jasper staggered back, bumping into the large sponsor backdrop behind him.
"Shut up!" Jasper yelled at the reporters, panic completely erasing his sorrowful facade. "Turn the cameras off! Cut the feed!"
"Keep them rolling," I countered, locking eyes with the front-row cameraman. "This is a live press conference, isn't it? The fans deserve to hear the rest of the eulogy."
"Mia, you're confused," Jasper stammered, raising his hands defensively. "You went through a trauma. The crash... it messed with your head."
"My head is perfectly clear."
I reached into my blazer pocket and pulled out a small, silver flash drive. I held it up for the room to see.
"Do you know what this is, Jasper?"
He stared at the drive, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.
"It's the dashcam footage from the garage," I stated, my voice steady. "The footage you thought you deleted before the police arrived."
Zara yanked her hand away from Jasper as if he had caught fire.
"Jasper," Zara hissed, her microphone picking up the frantic whisper. "What is she talking about?"
"She's lying!" Jasper shouted, pointing a shaking finger at me. "She's insane! Security, get her out of here!"
Two bulky security guards at the edge of the stage shifted uncomfortably, but neither made a move toward me. The media presence was too massive.
"I also brought a copy of your bank statements," I continued, taking a step closer to the stage. "The offshore transfers made to a mechanic in Southside just three hours before my brakes failed."
"That proves nothing!" Jasper roared.
"Then you won't mind if I give this drive to Detective Miller," I replied. "He's waiting in the lobby."
Jasper’s knees actually buckled. He braced his forearms on the podium to stay upright.
"Mia, please," he begged, his voice dropping into a desperate, pathetic whine. "Let's talk about this in private. Just you and me."
"We have nothing to talk about in private."
"I loved you!" he yelled, tears brimming in his eyes again. This time, they were genuine. Tears of absolute terror.
"You loved my family's trust fund," I corrected him. "And you loved sleeping with my best friend in my bed while I was out of town."
The room collectively gasped.
Zara’s face flushed a violent shade of crimson.
"That is a lie!" Zara shrieked, pointing at me. "You're delusional! I have been nothing but a loyal friend to you!"
"We mourned you!" Zara cried out, stepping toward the microphones. "We held a vigil for you!"
"I saw the photos from the vigil," I noted. "You wore my favorite diamond earrings to it."
Zara immediately brought her hands up to cover her earlobes.
"Keep them," I offered coldly. "Consider it severance pay for our friendship."
I pulled my phone from my pocket and tapped the screen twice.
"Check your messages, Zara," I instructed. "I just forwarded the entire press list a video from my bedroom security camera."
Phones began buzzing and chiming in unison across the massive hall.
Reporters stared at their screens. Jaws dropped. A few burst into shocked laughter.
"Oh my god," a journalist in the front row muttered, looking from his phone to Zara. "That's... that's definitely them."
Zara covered her face with her hands, letting out a mortified sob. She spun around and sprinted off the back of the stage, abandoning Jasper entirely.
Jasper didn't even look at her. His eyes were glued to me, wide and feral like a trapped animal.
"You ruined my life," he snarled, his grief completely evaporating into pure malice.
"You did that to yourself," I replied.
I turned my back on him and faced the wall of cameras.
"The Mia Lawson Memorial Fund is officially canceled," I announced to the lenses. "But I highly recommend tuning in to Jasper Crawford's upcoming trial. It's going to be a spectacular show."
"Mia, wait!" Jasper vaulted over the edge of the stage, lunging for me.
Before his feet even hit the carpet, two uniformed police officers burst through the side entrance, tackling the star quarterback to the ground.
"Jasper Crawford," Detective Miller barked, snapping handcuffs around his wrists. "You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Mia Lawson."
I watched him thrash against the officers, his expensive suit wrinkling against the floor.
I didn't feel an ounce of pity.
I turned and walked back up the center aisle, the cameras parting to let me through once again.
The doors to the lobby stood open, letting in the cool afternoon breeze.
I stepped out of the hall, ready to finally breathe.
But as I rounded the corner toward the exit, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking my path.
"Quite the performance in there, Ms. Lawson."
I looked up into a pair of cold, striking green eyes.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
The man smiled, handing me a sleek black envelope. "Someone who knows you didn't survive that crash by luck. You had help. And now, it's time to pay the toll."
