It wasn’t a murmur. It wasn’t mere discomfort. It was that thick, suffocating emptiness that forms when too many powerful people understand the exact same horrifying truth at the exact same time.
Julian stood frozen in front of the podium. The charismatic smile he used to charm investors was still plastered on his face, his hand clenched tightly over his cue cards.
By the side door, Vanessa stopped dead in her tracks. The vibrant red of her designer dress seemed almost violently bright under the harsh white lights of the room. The usual arrogance on her face vanished in an instantly shattered illusion.
And I, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, didn’t move a muscle.
The massive projector screen kept scrolling. I didn’t show anything sexually explicit; it wasn’t necessary. The opulent hotel room, the timestamp in the corner of the security file, Julian’s drunken laughter, Vanessa’s hand intimately tracing the back of his neck, her voice purring and asking if anyone was going to miss them that night… it was more than enough.
Twelve seconds.
That was all I let play before delivering the fatal blow.