I was raising my champagne glass when our maid burst into the ballroom, pale and shaking. “Don’t eat the cake!” she screamed. “She poisoned it!” Every head turned toward my billionaire father’s fiancée, whose perfect smile instantly vanished. She pointed at the maid. “She’s lying!” I quietly set down my fork and pulled out my phone. “Funny,” I said. “Because I recorded what you put in it.” And that was only the beginning of my revenge.

I turned my phone horizontal, tapping the airplay button on the screen.

In the corner of the Grand Ballroom hung a seventy-inch high-definition display screen, typically used for showing corporate slideshows and family historical videos during private events. The screen flickered, turning black for a second, before playing the crisp, high-definition video file.

The ballroom erupted into gasps.

On the massive screen, Celeste’s face was unmistakable. The video clearly showed her standing over the velvet-lined catering table, her silver dress glittering under the fluorescent lights of the pantry. The camera zoomed in as her delicate fingers unscrewed the amber dropper bottle and squeezed the clear fluid into the glossy white frosting of the cake’s top tier.

Celeste’s face turned from pale white to a hideous, mottled purple.

"That... that video is a fake!" Celeste screeched, her voice losing every trace of its refined, high-society accent. "It’s a deepfake! She generated it with artificial intelligence! Jonathan, you know how good technology is now! She hates me! She’s trying to frame me!"

My father stared at the screen. The glass of champagne in his hand began to tremble, liquid sloshing over the crystal rim onto his knuckles. His face looked suddenly old, hollowed out by a terrifying realization.

"It’s not a deepfake, Celeste," I said calmly, standing up from my chair and straightening my blazer. "And if you’d like to test that theory, we can hand the original, unedited raw video file—complete with timestamp and location metadata—directly to the forensic analysts from the state police department."

I snapped my fingers twice toward the back of the room.

Two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the velvet curtains near the entrance. They were not my father’s usual security guards. They were private investigators from Vance Security Services—a top-tier firm I had retained out of my personal bank account three weeks ago.

"Mark," I said to the lead investigator, "please secure the cake immediately. Do not allow anyone near it until the hazardous materials unit arrives. And place that amber bottle into an evidence bag."

Celeste lunged toward her purse on the table, her fingernails clawing at the leather strap.

Before she could reach it, Mark stepped smoothly into her path, his broad shoulder blocking her access. He expertly swept the silver purse off the table and dropped it into a heavy plastic evidence bag held by his partner.

"Get your hands off my property!" Celeste screamed, her voice echoing frantically across the silent room. "Jonathan! Are you going to let them do this to me?! I am your fiancée! I love you!"

My father slowly turned his head to look at her.

The doting, tender expression he had carried all evening was gone. In its place was the cold, ruthless steel that had built Ashford Global. He looked at her not as a lover, but as a dangerous liability.

"Jonathan..." Celeste whimpered, her eyes wide with desperate tears. "Please..."

"What was in the bottle, Celeste?" my father asked. His voice was terrifyingly low, carrying a weight that made even the guests in the back row shudder.

"It was... it was a homeopathic remedy!" she stammered, her mind racing visible behind her dark eyes. "It was a natural herbal supplement for your blood pressure! You’ve been so stressed with the engagement, Jonathan! I just wanted to help you relax! I was afraid you wouldn't take it if I gave it to you directly!"

"A homeopathic remedy," I repeated smoothly, stepping around the table until I was standing three feet away from her. "Fascinating. Is that why you bought it three days ago from an illicit online vendor operating out of an encrypted network in Eastern Europe?"

Celeste froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.

"Is that why," I continued, pulling a second document from my blazer pocket, "the primary active compound in that amber bottle is liquid Aconitum napellus—commonly known as monkshood? A neurotoxin that causes fatal cardiac arrhythmia within forty-five minutes of ingestion, leaving almost no trace in a standard post-mortem toxicology screen unless specifically searched for?"

The guests at the surrounding tables gasped, pulling back from the head table as if the air itself had turned toxic.

"You're insane!" Celeste gasped, taking a step backward until her back hit the marble pillar. "You're making this up!"

"I don't make things up, Celeste," I said softly, unfolding the document in my hand. "I collect evidence."

I turned toward my father, laying the printed paper gently in front of his plate.

"Dad," I said softly, "the cake wasn't meant to kill you tonight. It was meant to make you sick enough to be admitted to St. Jude’s Private Hospital under her exclusive care. Because as of yesterday morning, she had already finalized the paperwork to transfer your health power of attorney to her name."