Chapter 60:


    She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.


    Isolde tapped the Instagram icon on a secondary, untraceable phone. She swiped right. Live.


    She typed a title: The Matriarch of Manhattan vs. A 5-Year-Old.


    She hit Go Live.


    She kept the phone low, angled upward, ensuring her own face never entered the frame — a disembodied narrator to the Lancaster family’s self-immtion. Victoria was still leaning over the railing, face red, mouth open in a snarl.


    “Mrs. Lancaster,” Isolde said, her voice projecting clearly from off-camera. “Could you repeat that? For the audience?”


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    Victoria blinked. She saw the phone. But she was from a generation that believed itself untouchable, that consequences were reserved for poor people.


    “I said,” Victoria spat, “that this result is fraudulent! You are a grifter who has polluted my family’s legacy!”


    The viewer count climbed across the screen. 50… 200… 1,000. The algorithm loved drama.


    Belle saw the screen. She saw the small “LIVE” badge.


    “Mom!” Belle grabbed Victoria’s arm, digging her nails in. “Stop! She’s streaming! It’s live!”


    Victoria froze. She looked at the phone. She looked at the parents in the auditorium, who were now holding up their own devices — a sea of ck rectangles recording her meltdown.


    “You…” Victoria pointed a trembling finger. “Turn that off! Seize her phone!” She gestured to the two bodyguards standing by the door.


    The guards took a step forward.


    Isolde didn’t flinch. She panned the camera toward them, her voice calm and detached. “Are the Lancaster bodyguards going to assault a mother in a school auditorium? Is that the official policy?”


    The guards stopped. They weren’t stupid. Assault on camera was a felony.


    Grayson descended the private staircase from the VIP box, his face a mask of thunder. He pushed past stunned parents as he hurried down the long center aisle.


    “Isolde, put it down!” he hissed, panic flooding his eyes as he finally reached her. “You’re destroying the family name!”


    Isolde turned the camera on him. His panicked face filled the frame for thousands of viewers.


    “The family name is destroying itself, Grayson. I’m just holding the mirror.” She turned back to the screen behind her. “One hundred percent versus eighty-five percent. Data doesn’t lie. Math doesn’t care about your trust fund.”


    “It’s a mistake!” Victoria screamed from the box. “Cut the power! Headmaster, cut the power!”


    The Headmaster stared at the floor, wishing he could dissolve into the carpet. He didn’t move.


    Grayson’s phone began to buzz in his pocket. Then Belle’s. Then the PR manager’s.


    “Sir,” the PR manager whispered, ncing at his tablet. “SkyLine stock just dipped two percent. The hashtag LancasterMeltdown is trending in New York.”


    Grayson looked at his mother. He looked at the live feed on Isolde’s phone. He looked at the ruin unfolding in front of him.


    He turned toward the VIP box.


    “Mom!” Grayson roared. His voice cracked with a desperation he had never shown before. “Shut up! Get in the car!”


    Victoria recoiled as if he had struck her. “How dare you…”


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