No music.
No laughter.
No whispers.

Only thousands of stunned eyes fixed on the massive screen.

Theer’s face drained of color. His confident smile collapsed, replaced by pure panic.

“T-This… this must be some mistake,” he stammered, stepping back. “Lysandra, you can’t do this. You have no right!”

I slowly raised my hand.

At once, another man stepped forward — Mr. Hughes, the corporation’s chief auditor, holding a thick folder filled with documents.

“There is no mistake,” he said calmly. “All of Mr. Theer’s accounts were frozen at 6:47 p.m. today. His assets have been transferred to Madam Vandross’s trust. All contracts have been terminated.”

Vesper grabbed Theer’s arm in horror.

“What… what does that mean?” she whispered.

I leaned toward the microphone.

“It means,” I replied evenly, “that this hall is no longer paid for. The musicians are unpaid. The catering is unpaid. The hotel is unpaid. This ‘luxury wedding’ exists only on borrowed money.”

A wave of nervous murmurs swept through the room.

Waiters exchanged anxious glances.
Guests checked their phones.
The musicians quietly packed their instruments.

Theer spun toward me.

“You planned this!” he shouted. “You’re insane!”

I smiled faintly.

“No,” I said. “I simply stopped being convenient.”

The screen changed again.

FINANCIAL REPORT
ILLEGAL TRANSFERS
HIDDEN ACCOUNTS
OFFSHORE FUNDS

Huge numbers filled the display.
Dates from the past three years.
His signature on every page.

The crowd gasped.

“These funds,” Zephaniah announced, “were stolen from the corporate reserve. Mr. Theer used them for personal purposes — including financing this wedding.”

Vesper’s lips trembled.

“You told me it was your investment money…” she whispered.

“I—I can explain!” Theer cried desperately.

But it was already over.

The doors of the ballroom burst open.

Several men in dark suits entered.

Financial investigators.

“Mr. Theer,” an officer said firmly, “you are under arrest for fraud, embezzlement, and document forgery.”

The sound of handcuffs echoed through the hall.

Click.

Vesper screamed.

“No! This can’t be true! He wouldn’t…”

“He would,” I interrupted quietly. “And he did. While I built the company. While I worked through sleepless nights. While I trusted him.”

She stared at me as if seeing me for the first time.

“You… you knew all along?”

“From the beginning.”

I walked up to Theer, now standing in chains, his head lowered.

“Do you remember calling me a parasite?” I asked softly. “Funny. I was the heart of this empire. You were only living off it.”

He looked at me with empty eyes.

“You destroyed me…”

I leaned closer.

“No. You destroyed yourself. I only stopped saving you.”

The officers led him away.

Guests stepped aside in silence.

Some recorded everything.
Some looked away.
Some were crying.

The music never returned.

The wedding was dead.

Vesper collapsed into a chair, her $350,000 dress now nothing more than a symbol of broken illusions.

I turned to the audience.

“Thank you for coming,” I said calmly. “The celebration is over.”

Zephaniah handed me a glass.

“To your freedom,” he said.

I raised it.

“To never being anyone’s shadow again.”

And I drank.

In that moment, I understood:

The greatest revenge is not rage.
Not screams.
Not tears.

It is silence…

The silence in which someone else’s world collapses.