It spread fast and ugly, like spilled wine finding every crack in the tablecloth. People were no longer looking only at the screen. They were looking at Daniel. At Lorena. At the director. At you, standing there in a black dress with your own thick envelope still in your hand, suddenly transformed from wife receiving a public thank-you into the central witness of a room discovering it had been lied to in several directions at once.
Daniel was moving toward the stage now.
Not running. Men like him almost never run until it is too late. He was walking quickly, jaw tight, face straining to hold onto dignity even as the projections behind you ripped it off in neat, luminous strips. He kept glancing toward the AV booth, as if the right glare at the right technician might still turn truth back into a technical problem.
The screen changed again.
This time it was a text thread.
