Chapter 7 - Nine Secret Recordings
The lights in the grand ballroom suddenly dimmed to black.
A quiet hush fell over the three hundred guests.
Suddenly, every high-definition screen in the mansion—the massive TV displays in the hall, the digital art frames, and the massive projection screen behind the string quartet stage—lit up simultaneously.
Celeste’s smile vanished before the first siren reached the gates.
The audio roared through the mansion’s high-end sound system.
It wasn't music.
It was a recording from the previous afternoon—the conversation I had recorded in the linen closet.
“You think you’re smart, don't you, Clara?” Celeste’s voice boomed through the speakers, sharp, cruel, and completely devoid of her gentle public persona. “You look at me with those cold, arrogant eyes like you know something. But you’re just trash... By tomorrow night, you won't just be fired. You will be in handcuffs.”
The guests gasped in shock.
Ethan’s jaw dropped as he stared at his wife.
Celeste turned white as chalk. “Turn it off! Ethan, turn it off! Someone hack into the system!”
She turned to rush toward the media console, but Arthur, the old butler, stood firmly in front of the door, holding the heavy iron key in his hand and locking it from the outside.
“This is for Mrs. Eleanor,” Arthur said softly.
The screens shifted to the second recording.
It was the video from the hidden camera in the dollhouse—the footage from four years ago in the master bedroom.
The entire room watched in horrified silence as Celeste appeared on screen, calmly injecting the lethal dose into the first Mrs. Vale’s IV line while the poor woman choked and died.
Ethan stumbled back, hitting the side of the dining table, his face drained of all color.
“Eleanor...” Ethan gasped, staring at the screen in utter horror. “My God... Eleanor...”
The third recording played.
It was Celeste in the kitchen, holding the hot metal spoon toward ten-year-old Maya, threatening the children’s lives if they spoke about the money.
The fourth recording played: Celeste meticulously placing the wooden wedge beneath the antique crystal vase to frame the forty-fourth housekeeper.
The fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth recordings played in rapid succession—showing Celeste forging Ethan’s signatures on wire transfers, altering the twenty-million-dollar life insurance policy, and transferring millions into her offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands.
And then came the ninth recording.
It was a video recorded just one hour ago in the master bedroom dressing room.
The camera showed Celeste taking her own diamond bracelet, slipping it inside an envelope, and bribing one of the security guards to slide it into my leather bag while I was serving drinks downstairs.
Nine secret recordings.
Nine absolute, unassailable proofs of murder, child abuse, grand theft, corporate fraud, and evidence tampering.
The grand ballroom descended into total chaos.
Guests were muttering in horror, staring at Celeste as if she were a venomous snake.
Ethan stood frozen, looking at his wife as if seeing her for the very first time.
The man who had spent years believing he was the ruler of his empire realized he had been a blind puppet in his own home.
“You...” Ethan choked out, stepping toward Celeste, his hands shaking with violent rage. “You killed my wife! You abused my children! You stole my life!”
Celeste backed away, her aristocratic composure completely shattered.
She looked around frantically like a cornered animal.
“Ethan, listen to me! It’s a lie! It’s a deepfake! She edited it!” Celeste screamed, her voice shrill and desperate. “Guards! Arrest her!”
The security guards didn't move an inch.
May you like
They looked at her with disgust and stepped away, leaving her standing alone in the center of the floor.
Outside, the loud, screaming sirens of six police cruisers echoed through the iron gates of Vale House, growing louder with every passing second.
