The gala was set for six o’clock the following evening in the Crescent Hotel ballroom. Five hundred confirmed guests. A press platform near the back. Three camera crews. A donor recognition video. Ethan’s keynote at eight-fifteen. Board vote at nine. Champagne service at nine-thirty.
Ethan’s speech was the center of the evening.
That was where he intended to command the room.
So that was where I would take the room away from him.
I opened the production timeline and started making calls.
Not desperate calls.
Measured ones.
The kind people picked up because my name meant control.
First, I called my audiovisual director, Marcus.
“Tell me the final video reel is still editable,” I said.
He laughed softly. “Madison, I love when you greet me like a bomb has already been planted.”
“Is it editable?”
“Until noon tomorrow.”
“Good. I need a private insert prepared.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that cannot accidentally play early, cannot be accessed by anyone except you, and cannot be traced to the hotel system.”
A pause followed.
“That sounds expensive.”
“It is.”
Another pause. “Send me the assets.”
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