The Hotel Ballroom was packed. The air was hot, smelling of stale coffee and electricity. Flashbulbs went off in a blinding staccato rhythm as Hester stepped onto the podium.

Haywood stood beside her, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder. To the audience, it looked like support. To Hester, it felt like a shackle.

She looked out at the sea of reporters. They were hungry. They wanted the breakdown. They wanted the tears.

Hester unfolded the script Haywood had given her. She looked at the first line: I am ashamed of my actions.

She looked up. She made eye contact with the camera directly in front of her.

"I admit," she began, her voice clear and steady, "that my behavior at Fashion Week was... calculated."

Murmurs rippled through the room.

"Are you on drugs?" a reporter shouted from the back.

"Are you jealous of Brandy?" another yelled.

Hester paused. She didn't look at Haywood. "It was calculated... to show that talent cannot be hidden by a mask. I admit to creating hype. I admit to refusing to be invisible."

Haywood's grip on her shoulder tightened painfully. This wasn't the script. But it was ambiguous enough. She hadn't denied the "instability" outright; she had just reframed it as "artistic temperament." He couldn't stop her now without causing a scene.

"I am stepping back," Hester continued, "to evaluate my partnerships. Thank you."

She stepped down from the podium before the questions could escalate. The stock for Mckee Management dipped slightly on the tickers, but it didn't crash. Not yet.

As she walked toward the exit, a janitor was sweeping the floor near the side door. He pushed his broom right over her shoes, leaving a streak of dust on her black heels.

"Move it, crazy lady," the janitor sneered. "You're blocking the trash can."

Hester stopped. She recognized the look in his eyes. He had been paid. Brandy's assistant had likely slipped him fifty bucks to humiliate her on the livestream.

The cameras were still rolling, swiveling to catch her reaction. They expected her to cry. Or scream.

Hester didn't even look at the janitor. She gave a subtle, almost imperceptible nod to a large man in a dark suit standing by the door. It wasn't hotel security. It was Rhodes private security, disguised as staff.

The man moved instantly, stepping in front of the janitor. "Check your employment contract," the guard said, his voice a low rumble. "Clause 4. Disrespect to talent or guests is grounds for immediate termination by the venue client. You're fired."

The guard grabbed the janitor by the elbow. The janitor's smirk vanished as he was forcibly marched out the door.

The livestream chat went wild. She's bossy. She's a diva.

Haywood pulled her into the hallway, his face red. "That was close! You went off script, but... we can spin it. The 'Diva' angle works too. Now, the final step."

He checked his watch. "Visit Brandy in the hospital. She's checked in for 'stress'. Show the world you support her recovery. Kiss the ring, Hester."

Hester smiled. It was the smile of a shark sensing blood in the water.

"I'd love to," she said.

She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Josie.

Green light.

The VIP hospital room smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies-the kind usually sent to funerals. Hester had bought them in the lobby. It was a subtle touch.

Brandy was lying in the hospital bed, propped up by pillows. She was wearing full makeup-foundation, contour, false lashes-but she had chosen a pale lip color to look "frail."

Haywood stood by the bed, holding her hand. Brandy's assistant was in the corner, holding a smartphone up.

"We're live," the assistant whispered.

Hester walked in.

"Oh, Hester," Brandy breathed, her voice weak and breathy. "Thank you for coming. I know you've been... going through a lot."

She was playing the saint. The victim.

"I brought flowers," Hester said, placing the lilies on the bedside table.

"Could you... adjust my pillows?" Brandy asked, pointing a manicured finger. "My back hurts. The nurse is so slow."

She was treating Hester like a maid on a livestream with fifty thousand viewers.

Hester stood still. "You have hands, Brandy. Use them."

Brandy gasped. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes. "See? She's so cruel! I'm trying to be nice, and she attacks me!"

Haywood stepped forward, looking stern for the camera. "Hester, please. She's in a delicate condition."

"My feet are cold," Brandy whined, pushing the blanket off her feet. "Put my socks on, Hester. Show everyone you're sorry."

The chat on the screen was scrolling so fast it was a blur of hate. Do it! Apologize! Monster!

Hester laughed. It was a cold, chilling sound that made the air in the room freeze.

"I'm not your servant, Brandy," Hester said. "And I'm not your doormat."

She looked directly at the phone camera held by the assistant.

"Josie, now."

PING.

Every phone in the room went off at once. The assistant's phone. Haywood's phone. Brandy's phone on the tray.

It was a notification cascade.

Josie had just uploaded the "Mckee Files" to Twitter, Instagram, and sent the zip file to TMZ.

Hester watched as the assistant's face went pale. The girl lowered the phone, but the livestream was still running.

"What is this?" Haywood muttered, pulling his phone out.

On the screen was a photo. High definition. Timestamped four months ago. It showed Haywood and Brandy in the Mckee Penthouse bedroom.

Swipe left. An audio file. Click to play.

Haywood's voice filled the quiet hospital room from his own phone speaker. "We'll drain her accounts. She won't notice. She's too trusting. Once you're the face of the brand, we dump her."

Swipe left. A medical chart. Patient: Brandy Craig. Status: Pregnancy, 16 weeks.

The livestream comments stopped for a split second. Then they exploded.

WAIT.

LOOK AT TWITTER.

OMG SHE'S THE MISTRESS.

THEY STOLE HER MONEY?

BRANDY IS PREGNANT?

Brandy grabbed her phone. Her scream was real this time. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

The assistant fumbled, dropping the phone. The camera landed facing the ceiling, but the audio was still capturing the chaos.

Haywood looked at Hester. His face was gray, the color of wet ash. "You..."

Hester leaned over the bed, bringing her face close to Brandy's.

"Enjoy the spotlight, Brandy," she whispered. "You finally got everyone's attention."

She turned around. The sound of Brandy sobbing and Haywood shouting orders at the assistant echoed behind her. Hester walked out of the room, her heels clicking rhythmically on the linoleum floor. She didn't look back.