Chapter 2 - The Truth on the Screen
The vibrant colors of the birthday montage vanished, replaced by a stark, glowing blue desktop interface.
For three terrifying seconds, the massive screen remained frozen, displaying only a standard file explorer window. Several guests near the front laughed nervously, assuming it was a playful joke or a technical glitch from the AV crew. The hostess forced a bright, brittle smile, turning to a wealthy donor beside her.
“The staff these days,” she murmured, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “Honestly, the incompetence—”
She didn't finish her sentence.
A video file opened automatically. The title bar across the top of the giant screen read: ROYAL_STAR_MANOR_KITCHEN_AUDIT_LOG_REVISED.
The camera angle was high, looking down from a security lens mounted in the service corridors behind the grand ballroom. The footage was crisp, high-definition, and date-stamped just four hours earlier.
On the screen, the kitchen doors swung open, and the head chef—a Michelin-starred celebrity known globally—was seen aggressively shoving a stack of leftover gourmet canapés into a cheap plastic garbage bag, while shouting curses at a frail, middle-aged woman wearing a worn cleaning apron.
The woman in the apron was scrubbing the industrial tile floor on her hands and knees.
Gasps erupted from the audience.
“What is this?!” the hostess shrieked, her face draining of color as she spun around to face the stage. “Cut that screen! Someone shut it down immediately!”
But the remote control systems on the soundboard had been locked out. The audio kicked in, filling the acoustic ballroom with crystal-clear sound.
“You’re clearing out the table scraps for your brat again, Clara?” the chef’s voice boomed from the speakers, echoing off the crystal chandeliers. “Management says all excess catering goes into the dumpster, not home with the cleaning staff!”
“Please, Chef,” a tired, trembling voice answered from the floor. “It’s my daughter’s third birthday today. I just wanted to take home a small piece of the leftover fruit tart. She’s never tasted a real cake before.”
“Not my problem,” the chef sneered on the video. “Get back to scrubbing. If the floor isn't spotless by five, you’re fired without pay.”
In the center of the ballroom, the silence became absolute.
Every head slowly turned.
Three hundred pairs of eyes shifted away from the screen and looked down toward the edge of the dance floor, where the little girl in the faded pink dress still stood beside the security guard.
Clara.
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The little girl wasn't an uninvited intruder from the streets. She was the daughter of Clara, the woman who spent fourteen hours a day scrubbing the marble floors of Royal Star Manor so that wealthy strangers could dance upon them in pristine comfort.
The little girl wiped her eyes with the back of her small, rough hand, staring up at the giant screen. On it, her mother was currently being handed a mop while crying silently into her sleeve.
