*”You used my savings to fund the shipment,”* my own recorded voice asked.

*”And now you’re laundering the profits through Khloe’s charity auction.”*

Tristan reached for his microphone, trying to switch it off, but the AV team had disabled his stage controls.

*”It’s called business, Kate,”* Tristan’s recorded voice sneered.

*”And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”*

The audio looped, playing the confession a second time, louder and clearer.

The white text on the screen shifted.

Bank account routing numbers, wire transfers, and forged shipping manifests began to scroll down the massive LED displays.

It was the complete digital paper trail of his fraud.

The room erupted into chaos.

Guests stood up from their tables, pointing at the screens.

Reporters from the financial news desks began shouting questions.

Flashbulbs strobed rapidly, illuminating the panic on Tristan’s face.

He looked up toward the media booth, his eyes locked onto the glass window.

He saw me standing there.

I stood up slowly, looking down at him.

I did not smile.

I did not wave.

I just watched him fall.