The ballroom went absolutely silent.

“I need her admitted immediately,” the recorded voice of my husband continued, cold and clinical. “She is unstable. I will sign whatever consent forms are necessary to authorize the procedure.”

On the giant LED screens, a bright green audio waveform pulsed in sync with the words, accompanied by bold, white subtitles that everyone in the room could read.

Jared’s face turned an ashen, sickly gray under the bright white spotlights.

He lunged for the microphone to cut the power, but his hands were shaking so violently he knocked the heavy metal stand over, sending a screech of feedback through the room.

“Turn it off!” he yelled into the empty air, his voice cracking. “Turn it off now!”

But the recording kept playing.

“And the wife’s consent?” Dr. Silas’s voice asked on the tape, echoing off the high ceiling.

“I am her husband,” Jared’s recorded voice replied, flat and ruthless. “I make her decisions. Just sedate her and get it done.”

A collective gasp rippled through the audience of five hundred people.