Chapter 7 - The Broadcast
The final showdown was televised. My mother, in a desperate bid for public sympathy, agreed to a live interview on Global News. She wore black, wept on cue, and painted a picture of a "troubled, mentally unstable son who had turned against his own flesh and blood."
The host was a sycophant, leaning in with manufactured concern. "Mrs. Vane, the world wants to know—what could lead a son to treat his own family this way?"
"I don't know," she sobbed, looking into the camera. "We gave him everything. We were his biggest supporters."
I was watching from the control room of the broadcasting center. I had bribed the chief engineer—a former student of mine—to allow me access to the live feed.
As she finished her sentence, I hit the upload key.
The feed didn't just cut; it transformed. On every screen in the nation, the interview audio was replaced by a high-definition, multi-angle montage. It showed the brunch, the abuse, the secret recordings of my father gloating about selling my code, and the incriminating bank transfers Sarah and I had unearthed.
The host’s face went white. My mother stopped crying, her jaw dropping as she saw her own crimes playing out on the monitors behind her.
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"Leo!" she screamed at the camera, her mask completely slipping. She lunged for the microphone, her face contorted in a way that would become the most viral image of the decade. "You little piece of trash! You’ll never get away with this!"
The broadcast went global. By the time the screen cut to black, the Vane name was synonymous with ruin.
