Chapter 6

The lights in the ballroom dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd. The president of the Architectural Guild strode to the podium, his voice booming through the speakers as he began his glowing introduction of the Man of the Hour.

Anthony returned to the table, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and relief. He squeezed my hand under the table, a gesture of shared victory for a battle he did not realize he had already lost. He thought the crisis was contained.

"Everything okay?" he whispered, his eyes shining.

"Perfect," I whispered back, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

He beamed, his confidence restored. Katia had returned to her seat, her makeup repaired, a brittle smile plastered on her face. Jacob was looking at his father with pure, unadulterated hero worship. The happy family, restored.

"...a man whose vision is matched only by his integrity, a pillar of our community, and a devoted family man... it is my great honor to present the Innovator of the Year Award to Mr. Anthony Ortiz!"

The room erupted in applause. Anthony stood, kissed me quickly on the cheek-a dry, papery kiss for the benefit of the cameras-and strode to the stage. He accepted the heavy, sculptural award, holding it aloft like a trophy of war.

He was magnificent. Charming, humble, eloquent. He thanked his partners, his mentors, his clients. He spoke of his passion for building not just structures, but communities. He was a master orator, weaving a spell over the entire room.

And then, he turned his gaze to me.

"But my greatest creation," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "is not made of steel and glass. It is the life I have built with my incredible wife, Alexandra. For twenty years, she has been my rock, my inspiration, and my greatest champion."

The crowd murmured its approval. A collective "aww" rippled through the room.

"Alex, my love," he said, his eyes locking with mine. "Would you do me the honor of joining me on stage?"

This was it. The moment.

The crowd applauded again as I rose from my seat. Anthony watched me, his face a mask of loving pride. He was a condemned man, admiring the gleam on the blade of the guillotine as it made its final ascent.

I moved slowly, deliberately, my emerald gown shimmering under the stage lights. I felt a thousand pairs of eyes on me. I reached the stage and took the microphone from his hand, our fingers brushing. His were warm and confident. Mine were ice cold.

"Thank you, Anthony," I said, my voice clear and steady. The crowd quieted, expectant. "That was a beautiful speech. Truly."

I turned to face the audience. "Anthony is right. He is a builder. He builds magnificent facades. He builds beautiful public elevations. And he builds foundations of the most intricate, elaborate lies."

A nervous titter went through the crowd. They thought it was a joke. Anthony's smile wavered, a flicker of confusion disturbing the placid surface of his expression.

"He spoke of his integrity," I continued, my voice calm and even. "So I thought tonight, on the biggest night of his career, it would be fitting to share a project he's been working on in secret. A project that speaks to his true character."

I glanced toward the tech booth at the back of the room. My assistant, Zara, gave me a small, sharp nod.

"I call it, 'The Architecture of a Betrayal: A Case Study,' " I announced.

And then, the two massive screens on either side of the stage, which had been displaying the Guild's logo, flickered to life.

The first image was the iMessage. The one that started it all. *Last night was insane... You owe me a Round 2...*

The room went silent. Anthony's expression shifted from confusion to a dawning, slack-jawed horror. He reached for the microphone. "Alex, what are you doing?"

I held it just out of his reach. "I'm just sharing your work, darling."

The slide changed. A photo of the hotel service entrance. Then a shot of the Cartier watch on Katia's wrist. On the other side of the screen, a photo of me, wearing the identical watch, from our anniversary dinner.

The sound that moved through the room was not a gasp, but a collective, sharp intake of breath, a thousand lungs sucking the air from the ballroom. People were murmuring, pointing.

The next slide was a close-up of Katia Shepherd's face, taken from a screenshot of her 'story time' video. The caption I'd added below it read: *Katia Shepherd, Northwood High School Counselor.*

Principal Thompson, at his table, sat bolt upright. Katia's parents stared at the screen, their faces masks of pure disbelief.

"Anthony believes in mentorship," I said, my voice dripping with ice. "He's been mentoring Ms. Shepherd here. In fact, he's been so dedicated to her professional development that he's been conducting one-on-one sessions in a hotel room two or three times a week."

Anthony lunged for me, the veins standing out on his neck like taut wires. "Stop it! Turn it off!" he roared.

But it was too late. The final part of the presentation began.

It wasn't a slide. It was a video. Katia's TikTok. The one where she called me the "old ball and chain." The one where she bragged about turning my son against me. Her smug, arrogant voice filled the grand ballroom. *"She's probably at home, organizing his sock drawer or something. Poor, boring thing."*

The room did not erupt; it fractured, the low murmur breaking into a hundred sharp, angry conversations.

Katia let out a strangled sob. Jacob, at his table, looked like he had been turned to stone, his face white with shock and humiliation.

The video kept playing. Clip after clip. Katia flaunting the necklace. Katia filming a sleeping Anthony. The comments from her friends flashing on screen. The entire sordid, pathetic affair, broadcast in high definition for everyone to see.

Anthony was no longer trying to get the microphone. He was scrambling toward the tech booth, screaming. "Turn it off! I said, TURN IT OFF!"

But Zara had locked the door.

He stood there, helpless, as the final file played: an audio recording, crystal clear, time-stamped just thirty minutes prior. It was the hushed, frantic conversation from the service corridor.

*"You promised me, Anthony,"* Katia's voice, thick with tears, echoed through the ballroom. *"You promised that after this award, you would leave her."*

*"And we will,"* Anthony's voice replied, a desperate hiss. *"I swear, tomorrow we will start our new life. You and me."*

The recording ended. The screens went black. The silence that descended upon the room was absolute, a heavy, suffocating blanket under which every guest seemed to hold their breath.

Anthony stood frozen in the middle of the ballroom, halfway between the stage and the tech booth, the architecture of his life in ruins around him. Every eye was on him. Every face was a mask of contempt and disgust.

He turned slowly, his eyes finding mine. They were not wild, but hollow, bottomless pits of despair and hatred. "You bitch," he mouthed, his voice a hoarse whisper lost in the cavernous silence. "You've destroyed me."