Chapter 10
The massive LED screen behind Clara did not display the glitzy promotional graphics for the global expansion initiative. Instead, the high-definition display flooded with stark, unforgiving financial ledgers, bank routing numbers, and wire transfer confirmations connecting Clara’s private accounts directly to the engineering contractor responsible for the suspension bridge maintenance.
A collective gasp echoed through the luxury ballroom as journalists, investors, and influencers scrambled to read the cascading data. Before anyone could process the financial records, the audio system cut away from Clara’s live microphone and began playing a crystal-clear, decrypted voice recording of Clara speaking with the maintenance fixer two weeks prior to the accident.
"Just make sure that specific glass panel gives way under standard weight," Clara’s recorded voice rang out clearly through the high-end speakers, carrying an undeniable, chilling calmness. "Make it look like a tragic accident caused by wear and tear. Once she’s gone, the entire portfolio reverts to my sole management."
The ballroom erupted into chaotic pandemonium. Flashbulbs strobed frantically, not capturing glamorous portraits anymore, but capturing the absolute terror draining color from Clara’s face. On stage, Clara froze mid-sentence, her mouth slightly open as she stared in sheer horror at the towering screen behind her. The polished veneer of confidence shattered instantly, replaced by wide-eyed panic as she realized her most deeply buried secrets were broadcasting live to millions of viewers worldwide.
Clara turned around slowly, her hands trembling as she grabbed the edges of the podium, watching her entire life’s work evaporate in a matter of seconds. The journalists in the front rows lunged forward, thrusting microphones toward the stage and shouting overlapping questions about premeditated murder, corporate sabotage, and betrayal. Security guards rushed toward the aisles, unsure whether to protect the speaker or contain the raging mob of outraged guests.
Selena remained motionless in the shadows at the back of the ballroom, her hands still buried deep in the pockets of her dark coat. She watched Clara’s carefully constructed world collapse under the weight of its own deceit, feeling no joy or elation—only a cold, absolute sense of equilibrium being restored. The cosmic debt was finally being balanced.
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Clara searched the panicked crowd frantically, her eyes darting from face to face, desperate to find an ally, a lawyer, anyone who could shut down the screens and restore the illusion. Then, her gaze locked onto the back of the room. Through the haze of camera flashes and shouting spectators, Clara’s eyes met Selena’s steady, unblinking stare standing quietly in the dark shadows.
The color drained entirely from Clara’s face. She staggered backward against the podium, dropping her notes as her knees buckled beneath her crimson gown. She wasn't looking at a ghost; she was looking at the undeniable consequence of her own ruthless ambition coming back to collect its due.
