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“You think this makes you look dignified?” he said, forgetting the microphone again. “You just destroyed yourself with me.”
“No,” I said. “That was your mistake.”
He stared at me.
“You thought I was standing beside you.”
I glanced at the screen behind us, where his own words remained frozen in white text.
“I was standing close enough to see where to cut.”
For three seconds, no one breathed.
Then the room erupted.
Reporters surged forward. Board members clustered together in furious groups. Donors demanded explanations. Elise argued with security. Grant’s colleagues refused to meet his eyes.
Then Grant grabbed my arm.
His fingers closed hard above my elbow.
“Stop,” he hissed.
I looked down at his hand.
Then back at him.
“Let go.”
He did not.
A camera flash exploded.
He released me instantly.
Too late.
I stepped away, leaving him alone beneath the lights.
That should have been the end of the evening.
It was not.
As chaos swallowed the ballroom, my phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
This time, it was a photograph.
Of me.
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