Chapter 7 - The Projectionist’s Cue
The glass marquee tent was bathed in violet and gold mood lighting.
Waiters in white tuxedos glided between forty round tables, serving dry-aged filet mignon and pouring vintage Dom Pérignon. The hum of high-society conversation was electric.
At the head table, elevated on a velvet-draped dais, sat Chloe and Julian. Chloe was already three glasses deep, laughing loudly, her head thrown back, basking in the adoration of her sorority sisters.
Richard had managed to seat himself at table four, leaning over the back of Senator Arthur Vance’s chair, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten shrimp cocktail as he pitched his logistics firm. Arthur Vance looked profoundly annoyed, nodding curtly while checking his gold Patek Philippe watch.
At 7:40 PM, Chloe tapped her microphone.
The piercing feedback cut through the laughter, silencing the four hundred guests.
“Everyone! If I could have your attention!” Chloe called out, her cheeks flushed with alcohol and triumph. She stood up, staggering slightly on her Louboutin heels before catching the edge of the table. “Before we cut the cake, the Sanders family has a very... special tradition.”
Down at table four, Beverly began to titter, nudging the woman beside her. Richard sat back, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Ten years ago, my cousin Richard married his lovely wife, Marissa,” Chloe said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. A spotlight suddenly swung across the room, blinding Matthew and me at our quiet table in the back corner. “Now, Marissa has always been a little... sensitive. She’s never quite understood our family humor. But tonight, to welcome Julian into our crazy clan, we wanted to show everyone where it all began!”
Chloe gestured toward the three massive LED screens hanging above the dance floor.
“Devon! Hit the retro video!” Chloe screamed into the mic, pumping her fist. “Let’s see the swamp monster!”
The lights in the marquee dimmed completely.
A low murmur rippled through the Vance side of the tent. Senator Arthur Vance frowned, looking over at Beverly. “What is this, Beverly?”
“Oh, Arthur, darling, just watch!” Beverly giggled, clapping her hands like a manic seal. “It’s hilarious! Marissa was covered from head to toe in rotten eggs!”
On the massive center screen, the video began to play.
The timestamp flashed in the bottom corner: *OCTOBER 14, 2014 – CHARLOTTE, NC.*
The double doors of my wedding ballroom appeared. The footage of twelve-year-old Chloe firing the confetti cannons filled the screen. The sound of rotten eggs hitting my white silk dress with sickening, wet thuds blasted through the high-end Meyer Sound speakers.
Laughter erupted from the Sanders tables. Richard barked with laughter, slapping his thigh.
On the screen, my ten-years-younger self collapsed to her knees, clutching her face, sobbing as sulfurous yellow yolk dripped down her veil.
Then, the screen cut to the dressing room.
The camera, hidden in the floral arrangement on the vanity, showed me standing in my underwear, weeping uncontrollably, desperately trying to scrape rotting egg from my hair with a towel.
The laughter in the room began to falter.
A heavy, uncomfortable silence descended over the Vance family. Eleanor Vance’s mouth fell open in absolute, aristocratic horror. Several older patrons gasped, averting their eyes.
“Turn that off!” Arthur Vance barked, standing up from his table. “What kind of sick vulgarity is this?”
Chloe, still clutching the microphone on the stage, looked confused. “Wait, wait! Keep watching! It gets funnier when she starts screaming for the police!”
But the video didn't show me screaming.
Suddenly, the screen glitched. A sharp, digital static tore across all three forty-foot displays.
The audio cut out.
And then, the screen turned pitch black.
In bold, blood-red Helvetica text, three words appeared across the forty-foot LED walls:
May you like
**THE AUDIT BEGINS.**
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