The VIP hospital room smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies-the kind usually sent to funerals. Hester had bought them in the lobby. It was a subtle touch.
Brandy was lying in the hospital bed, propped up by pillows. She was wearing full makeup-foundation, contour, false lashes-but she had chosen a pale lip color to look "frail."
Haywood stood by the bed, holding her hand. Brandy's assistant was in the corner, holding a smartphone up.
"We're live," the assistant whispered.
Hester walked in.
"Oh, Hester," Brandy breathed, her voice weak and breathy. "Thank you for coming. I know you've been... going through a lot."
She was playing the saint. The victim.
"I brought flowers," Hester said, placing the lilies on the bedside table.
"Could you... adjust my pillows?" Brandy asked, pointing a manicured finger. "My back hurts. The nurse is so slow."
She was treating Hester like a maid on a livestream with fifty thousand viewers.
Hester stood still. "You have hands, Brandy. Use them."
Brandy gasped. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes. "See? She's so cruel! I'm trying to be nice, and she attacks me!"
Haywood stepped forward, looking stern for the camera. "Hester, please. She's in a delicate condition."
"My feet are cold," Brandy whined, pushing the blanket off her feet. "Put my socks on, Hester. Show everyone you're sorry."
The chat on the screen was scrolling so fast it was a blur of hate. Do it! Apologize! Monster!
Hester laughed. It was a cold, chilling sound that made the air in the room freeze.
"I'm not your servant, Brandy," Hester said. "And I'm not your doormat."
She looked directly at the phone camera held by the assistant.
"Josie, now."
PING.
Every phone in the room went off at once. The assistant's phone. Haywood's phone. Brandy's phone on the tray.
It was a notification cascade.
Josie had just uploaded the "Mckee Files" to Twitter, Instagram, and sent the zip file to TMZ.
Hester watched as the assistant's face went pale. The girl lowered the phone, but the livestream was still running.
"What is this?" Haywood muttered, pulling his phone out.
On the screen was a photo. High definition. Timestamped four months ago. It showed Haywood and Brandy in the Mckee Penthouse bedroom.
Swipe left. An audio file. Click to play.
Haywood's voice filled the quiet hospital room from his own phone speaker. "We'll drain her accounts. She won't notice. She's too trusting. Once you're the face of the brand, we dump her."
Swipe left. A medical chart. Patient: Brandy Craig. Status: Pregnancy, 16 weeks.
The livestream comments stopped for a split second. Then they exploded.
WAIT.
LOOK AT TWITTER.
OMG SHE'S THE MISTRESS.
THEY STOLE HER MONEY?
BRANDY IS PREGNANT?
Brandy grabbed her phone. Her scream was real this time. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"
The assistant fumbled, dropping the phone. The camera landed facing the ceiling, but the audio was still capturing the chaos.
Haywood looked at Hester. His face was gray, the color of wet ash. "You..."
Hester leaned over the bed, bringing her face close to Brandy's.
"Enjoy the spotlight, Brandy," she whispered. "You finally got everyone's attention."
She turned around. The sound of Brandy sobbing and Haywood shouting orders at the assistant echoed behind her. Hester walked out of the room, her heels clicking rhythmically on the linoleum floor. She didn't look back.
