Chapter 6 - The Voice of the Predator
“You’ll sign the transfer papers by midnight, Evelyn, or I’ll make sure your mother’s medical trust gets flagged for federal audit,” the audio recording boomed through the speakers, capturing every harsh, calculated inflection of Grant’s voice from our kitchen last Tuesday night.
In the audience, my mother gasped, clutching her chest.
On the screen, the audio waveform pulsed in sync with the dialogue.
“You think you built Apex? You’re just a coder with a lucky break. Without my name, without my connections, you’re nothing. If you don’t sign over the voting rights, I’ll leak your personal medical records and ensure no venture capitalist in this country ever looks at a line of code you write again.”
The ballroom was so quiet you could hear the electrical hum of the projectors.
Every head turned slowly from the screen back toward Grant. The business partners, the fraternity brothers, the men who had slapped him on the back during the cocktail hour—all of them were staring at him now not with admiration, but with the cold, calculating revulsion of predators realizing they had allied with a liability.
Councilman Vance was already sliding out of his row, quietly grabbing his overcoat, desperately trying to slip toward the exit before his own name appeared on the screens.
“That’s... that’s an AI deepfake!” Grant screamed, lunging toward the altar in a blind panic, his polished veneer completely incinerated. He pointed a shaking finger at me, his face purple with rage. “She hacked the system! She’s mentally unstable! She forged these files to ruin our wedding!”
“Did I forge this, too, Grant?” I asked quietly.
I tapped my controller a second time.
The screen flickered, transitioning from audio logs to a high-resolution, unedited video file captured by the hallway security camera outside our master bedroom at 11:42 PM last night.
The video played in sharp, silent clarity for all two hundred guests to see.
It showed Grant standing over me as I sat at the vanity table, saw him demand the signed transfer papers, watched my refusal, and then caught the violent, open-handed slap that sent me crashing sideways into the bedroom dresser, leaving the exact purple bruise currently sitting on my face.
The video ran to the end, looped back, and froze on a still frame of Grant’s hand striking my cheek.
May you like
No one spoke. No one breathed.
Denise Holloway slumped back into her chair, her jeweled hands trembling uncontrollably as she stared at the screen, stripped of every arrogant defense she had carried into the room.
