In the control booth, Cynthia Sharpe’s finger hovered over her earring–the signal to the producer to launch the “Spy Dossier” on the big screen.
“Now!” Cynthia hissed into her headset. “Run the photos! Destroy them!”
“Belay that order,” a cold voice commanded.
Cynthia spun around. Lady Beatrice Croft stood in the shadows of the booth, leaning on her cane, watching the monitor where William was kissing Sophie amidst falling confetti.
“Are you insane?” Cynthia shrieked. “We have them! The audience is watching!”
“Exactly,” Beatrice said smoothly. “Look at them. The public loves a redemption arc. If we destroy them now, William becomes a martyr, and Sophie becomes the tragic victim of a cruel exposure. We will lose the narrative.”
Beatrice reached out and lowered Cynthia’s hand. “Let them have their moment. Let them plan the wedding. Let them believe they are safe. When the height is greatest, the fall is lethal. We will use the dossier to take the child when the ink is dry on the marriage license.”
Cynthia watched the screen, her chest heaving with suppressed rage, but she nodded. The execution was stayed, but the sentence remained.