Charles Vexley looked like a man watching his past detonate. His face drained of color, logic scrambling to keep up.
"Mirabel… I—I didn't even know you were gone," he stammered, turning to Rafael. "But these… these attempts—are you saying this is true?"
Rafael didn't hesitate.
"Oh, it's true, Father," he said, bitter amusement lacing every syllable. "In the past, she was incredibly creative."
The room froze.
"Poison slipped into my meals—subtle. Elegant. Almost artistic. Hitmen lingering in shadows, their failures merely… inconvenient delays. Scheme after scheme, all designed to erase me so she could tighten her grip on power."
Gasps erupted again. Phones shot up. Screens glowed as livestreams exploded.
A reporter in the front row whispered to no one in particular, "This isn't a tech summit anymore. This is a crime documentary happening in real time."
Rafael pressed on, merciless.
