Chapter 7 - The Witness in the Spotlight
The marble steps felt like a runway suspended over an abyss.
Every pair of eyes in the packed lobby locked onto us as Damian and I descended side by side.
Marcus Sterling scrambled frantically behind the podium, his hands trembling as he gripped the polished wood for balance.
“Don’t listen to them!” Sterling shouted into the nearest mic, his voice cracking with panic.
“That waitress is a paid actress! Vescari bought her silence with millions to cover up his own crimes!”
Damian didn’t even glance at Sterling.
He simply walked me right up to the edge of the stage, signaling Marco to step forward with a heavy black leather briefcase.
Marco unlocked the latches with a crisp click and placed the contents flat upon the podium, pushing Sterling roughly aside with one gloved hand.
“You want transparency, Marcus?” Damian’s voice boomed across the lobby, deep, resonant, and dripping with arctic menace.
“Let’s talk about transparency.”
Marco flipped open a thick file containing certified digital forensics, wiretap transcripts, and high-resolution financial ledgers.
“That is a complete fabrication!” Sterling shrieked, backing away toward the corporate elevators.
“You can't prove a damn thing!”
“I don't need to prove anything,” Damian replied coldly, stepping aside and gesturing toward me.
“Because the person who took the glass blade for my son has something to say to the press.”
The wall of cameras instantly pivoted from Sterling to focus entirely on my face.
My mouth felt dry, but the memory of little Luca’s terrified brown eyes gave me an unexpected surge of iron strength.
I stepped up to the center microphone, the cold metal cool beneath my fingers.
“My name is Emma Carter,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the massive hall.
“I am not a paid actress, and I certainly was never compensated by Mr. Vescari before last week.”
I reached up, deliberately unbuttoning the top two buttons of my coat to let the bright studio lights catch the thick, angry pink scar running down the side of my neck and disappearing beneath my collar.
“This scar isn't a political conspiracy,” I stated, looking directly into the primary camera lens broadcasting live across the nation.
“This is the exact shape of a custom-forged crystal fragment launched from a pneumatic rig operated by a mercenary wearing a stolen janitorial jumpsuit.”
A murmur of shock swept through the crowd of reporters as notebooks and tablets went wild.
“Furthermore,” I continued, turning my head to glare straight at a trembling Marcus Sterling, “at five o’clock on the evening of the gala, I personally heard Mr. Sterling slam his fist against a service cart in the Bellamy House kitchen, threatening that if his downtown real estate deal fell through, Vescari would pay for it with blood.”
Sterling lunged backward, turning on his heel to sprint toward the exit.
“Grab him,” Damian commanded softly.
Before Sterling could take three steps, two of Damian’s plainclothes security operatives materialized from the crowd, grabbing the disgraced executive by both arms and slamming him facedown against the polished lobby floor.
The flashbulbs erupted like lightning in a summer storm.
Sterling thrashed helplessly, screaming curses as the cold steel handcuffs snapped around his wrists with a definitive, metallic click.
Damian stood tall beside me, his dark eyes sweeping over the paralyzed crowd of journalists who suddenly realized they were witnessing the fall of a corporate empire in real-time.
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“The press conference is concluded,” Damian announced quietly, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Then, he wrapped his arm firmly around my waist, pulling me close against his side as we walked calmly back toward the private elevators.
