Anthony Morrison POV
The house no longer sounded like victory.
By the time Allison Croft walked out of the Morrison estate for the last time, the ballroom had turned into a graveyard dressed in crystal and lies.
Guests were leaving in waves.
Not loudly.
Not chaotically.
That would have been easier.
No, Boston's elite exited with polished silence, whispered observations, and the cold efficiency of people already deciding how far to distance themselves from the Morrison name before sunrise.
That was worse.
Anthony stood near the shattered remains of what had been his succession dinner and watched a board member avoid his eyes.
Another man—someone who had smiled and toasted him less than an hour ago—was already on the phone in the corner, speaking low and fast with one hand half-covering his mouth.
The projection screen had finally been shut off.
Too late.
The damage wasn't in the machine anymore.
It was in the room.
In the phones.
In the memory.
