Charlie arrived late, looking like a man walking toward a gallows. He thought he could pull me aside, talk me down, maybe get me to cancel the “stunt.” But when he saw the room full of people, his face went gray.
And then, the door opened.
Jessica walked in. She was wearing white—always the “innocent” one. She looked around, her influencer-trained eyes searching for a camera, for a fight, for a way to win. She spotted me and smirked, clutching her designer clutch like a weapon.
“You actually did it,” she said, walking up to me. “You’re even more desperate than Charlie said.”
“Desperate?” I laughed. “Jessica, you’re the one who spent your Tuesday night texting a married man to brag about photos you took three years ago. I’m just the curator.”
I signaled the technician.
The lights dimmed. The projector hummed to life.
Charlie stepped forward. “Stop this. Now.”
“Why?” I asked, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Are you afraid of the ‘beautiful’ things you’ve been looking at?”
The first image hit the screen. It wasn’t Jessica.
It was a screenshot of Charlie’s bank statements from the last six months.
May 12: $450 – Tiffany & Co. (I didn’t get a necklace in May).
June 14: $1,200 – Hotel Plaza Athénée, Paris. (Charlie was supposedly at a ‘leadership retreat’ in Chicago).
July 20: $200 – Flower Delivery, J. Reed.
The room went silent. Jessica’s smirk vanished. Charlie’s jaw dropped.
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