The final note of Luna’s anthem, “Unchained,” hung in the air of the A-Side studio, a shimmering vibration that seemed to hold the audience captive. Then, the silence shattered into thunderous applause. Victoria stood center stage, her chest heaving, blinded by the spotlights, feeling the first true rush of freedom she had known in years.
But in the VIP booth high above the stage, William Croft did not clap. He stared down at his wife, his hand gripping the railing until his knuckles turned white.
Suddenly, the darkness of the theater was punctured by a thousand tiny lights. It wasn’t a tribute. It was a panic.
Smartphones lit up in the hands of the audience members. Then the producers’ phones. Then the judges’. A low murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd, warring with the applause.
“My god,” a producer whispered near the booth, looking at his screen. “Croft Holdings. It’s bottoming out.”
William didn’t check his phone. He didn’t need to. He simply adjusted his cufflinks, his face a mask of grim satisfaction.
“Mr. Croft!” His personal assistant burst into the booth, pale and sweating. “Sir, the stock–it’s in freefall. The liquidation order you signed this morning… the market reacted. They think the company is insolvent. We’ve lost forty percent of our value in ten minutes.”
William turned slowly, his eyes cold. “I know,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “I told them to sell.”
He looked back down at the stage, where Victoria was now being ushered off by Marcus Thorne. He had liquidated his personal assets and dumped the company stock. He had triggered a crash on purpose. He would rather burn his own kingdom to ash than let the vultures–specifically the vulture waiting in his penthouse–pick the bones clean.