Then Eleanor’s voice filled the ballroom again.
“I’ve been crushing digoxin into his morning ginger smoothies. One day soon, he’ll fall asleep in his chair and not wake up. Then we control the board. We own everything.”
The room erupted.
People shouted.
Board members stood in shock.
Eleanor staggered backward, clutching her throat.
Harper screamed from the front row, “That’s illegal! You can’t record us!”
I looked down at her calmly.
“Interesting that you mention recordings, Harper.”
The screen went black.
Then audio from the café played through the speakers.
“Sign the medical power of attorney over to me today, or I go to the press,” Harper’s voice hissed. “I’ll say you behaved inappropriately toward me. I don’t care about your name, old man. I care about the money. Sign it.”
Harper sank into her chair.
The women around her physically moved away.
Preston rushed onto the stage, tears spilling down his face.
“Dad, please! I didn’t know! I swear I didn’t know about the poison or the threats!”
“I know you didn’t know about those,” I said softly. “But I know what you did when I was lying on the rug, pretending to die.”
His face froze.
“I know you saw my lawyer calling. I know you turned off my phone so I could die quietly.”
Preston began shaking.
“I panicked,” he whispered. “I’m your son. You can’t do this to your son.”
“That brings us to the final slide,” I said.
My voice hardened.
PART 3
The screen lit again.
This time, it showed official DNA results.
**Richard Sterling and Preston Sterling. Probability of paternity: zero percent.**
The ballroom went silent.
Preston turned slowly toward Eleanor.
She was crying now, her perfect makeup running in dark streaks down her face.
“But if I’m not his…” Preston stammered.
“Read the next line,” I said.
His eyes moved across the screen.
**Preston Sterling and Reverend Marcus Thorne. Probability of paternity: 99.9 percent.**
Every head in the ballroom turned toward Marcus.
The reverend looked as if the floor had vanished beneath him. His face went gray. His hands clutched the back of a chair. His mouth opened and closed without producing a word.
“Marcus,” I said, my voice cold, “I might have forgiven one betrayal forty years ago. But I will never forgive what you did to my company or your church.”
I pressed the remote again.
Bank records filled the screen.
Arrows showed money moving from the church’s charitable outreach fund into offshore accounts, then into gambling payments connected to Preston.
“Four million dollars,” I said. “Money meant for the homeless, the poor, and families in crisis. Used instead to pay off gambling debts.”
The crowd turned on him instantly.
Members of his congregation stared at him with horror and disgust.
“The FBI already has the complete files,” I continued. “The police are waiting downstairs.”
Marcus collapsed to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
Preston stumbled toward me, sobbing.
