The security alert, a jarring crimson flash across her comm-unit, vanished the moment Zinnia stepped into the cacophony of the Grand Reception Hall. Lissette Moreau was a problem for later. Tonight, the only thing that mattered was the sheer, unadulterated spectacle of Garrick’s humiliation. The ground concourse of the Corvell Spire, usually a bastion of hushed power, had been transformed into a glittering cavern of cut crystal and polished chrome for the annual Apex Gala. Chandeliers, spun from pure Lumos-Glass, dripped light onto a sea of bespoke suits and haute couture gowns. The air hummed with the scent of ozone and rare orchids. Zinnia, draped in a gown of shimmering obsidian-spun silk that seemed to absorb and re-emit the light, felt a prickle of anticipation. Tamsin, ever-present, offered a delicate flute of effervescent Stellara nectar. "All clear on the Lissette front, Madam Corvell. She was... redirected to an auxiliary lounge. Apparently, she's quite distressed about the quality of the complimentary finger sandwiches." Zinnia merely hummed, her gaze fixed on the elevated stage dominating the far end of the hall. A massive holoscreen shimmered behind it, currently displaying the swirling logo of Van-Dorn Global. Garrick, already standing center stage, looked impeccably tailored, yet his posture held a subtle tremor Zinnia recognized as pure, unadulterated nerves. He clutched a data-slate, his eyes darting nervously towards the crowd, searching, Zinnia knew, for her. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Garrick’s voice boomed, amplified to fill the cavernous space, a hollow joviality poorly masking his desperation. “Tonight is a night of celebration, of innovation, and… of reconciliation!” A murmur rippled through the elite assembled, their attention sharpening. They thrived on drama. He paused, his gaze finally finding Zinnia’s across the sprawling room. A stiff, saccharine smile stretched his lips. “It is with immense joy, and indeed, a profound sense of… personal reckoning, that I announce Van-Dorn Global’s latest acquisition: the prestigious Veridian Conglomerate, valued at a staggering ninety-two billion credits!” Gasps, impressed murmurs, and polite applause filled the floor. A ninety-two billion credit acquisition was no small feat, even for a titan like Van-Dorn Global. Garrick puffed out his chest, clearly basking in the momentary awe. “This acquisition, however, is not merely a strategic triumph. It is… a tribute.” He made a grand gesture towards Zinnia, his eyes attempting to convey a depth of emotion that was entirely absent from his expression. “A tribute, to the woman who showed me the true meaning of ambition, of devotion, of… everything.” He cleared his throat, adjusting the mic. “My dearest Zinnia. My… star-blossom. I dedicate this monumental achievement, this monument to my unwavering love, to you.” He then turned to the holoscreen, which now displayed a teleprompter feed. “The Veridian Conglomerate, with its vast network of aeroponic farms and stellar-mining operations, will be integrated into the Van-Dorn portfolio, strengthening our position in the burgeoning inter-sector resource market. Its innovative, if somewhat… *unconventional*, leadership will be absorbed into Van-Dorn’s streamlined executive structure, ensuring maximum efficiency and unparalleled growth.” Zinnia watched, a slow, predatory grin curving her lips. This was it. Tamsin’s moment. Garrick continued, his voice still ringing with an artificial flourish. “This strategic move, meticulously planned over the past… um… several quarters, is a clear indication of Van-Dorn’s commitment to… to… to a future where my every decision is proof of my profound, unwavering… incompetence.” The words hung in the air, a jarring dissonance against the backdrop of the gala’s refined elegance. A collective gasp swept through the crowd, followed by a sudden, stunned silence. Garrick faltered, his brows pulling tight in confusion as he stared at the teleprompter. He blinked, frowned, then produced a nervous laugh, trying to recover. “Ah, a slight… technical hiccup! My apologies, esteemed guests. As I was saying, my decisions are proof of… my utter lack of foresight and strategic acumen, particularly concerning my personal life.” The murmurs erupted, louder this time, tinged with disbelief and open amusement. A few discreet titters broke through the silence. Garrick’s face, usually composed, began to flush a furious crimson. He squinted at the screen, then looked desperately at an off-stage technician, who simply shrugged, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. Tamsin, Zinnia knew, had done her work well. “My deepest regrets,” Garrick continued, his voice now a choked whisper, utterly devoid of its earlier confidence. The teleprompter was merciless, scrolling onward. “I confess, before this assembly, that my entire business model is built on a house of cards, maintained only by the tireless efforts of my overlooked, undervalued staff. My personal wealth, too, is a delicate illusion, currently being siphoned away by a foundation for… orphaned hamsters. Furthermore, I must admit, to my eternal shame, that my capacity for… performance, both in the boardroom and, tragically, in the bedroom, has been demonstrably, and quite embarrassingly, deficient.” The silence that followed was so profound it seemed to suck the very air from the room. Then, a single, sharp snort of laughter broke the spell, quickly followed by a cascade of guffaws, titters, and outright bellows of amusement. The elite of Chrysos, usually so reserved, dissolved into open mirth. Garrick, standing alone on the stage, looked like a mannequin caught in a sudden, violent earthquake. His face was a mask of utter mortification, eyes staring in horror as he mouthed the words scrolling before him, live-streamed to every data-net across the city. Zinnia threw her head back and laughed, a rich, uninhibited sound that cut through the dying echoes of the crowd's mirth. It was glorious. Tamsin, standing beside her, offered a subtle, satisfied nod. “You!” A furious voice, sharp as fractured ice, cut through Zinnia’s triumph. Before she could react, a hand clamped onto her arm, fingers digging in with surprising force. Lissette Moreau stood there, her face a storm cloud of fury, her designer gown taut across her swollen abdomen. “You did this! You poisoned him against me! You ruined him!” Lissette’s grip tightened, twisting Zinnia’s arm. The sudden, unexpected pressure, combined with the shock of Lissette’s venomous proximity, set off an immediate crackle across Zinnia’s nerves. For a split second, the glittering ballroom, the laughing faces, the mortified Garrick on stage, all dissolved into a kaleidoscope of disjointed images. A pristine white room. The distant hum of machinery. A woman’s gentle voice, soothing and unfamiliar, repeating a strange mantra. The faint, sweet smell of lavender. And then, a flash of pure, blinding panic – *collateral damage, the loop will close, everything lost* – before the images snapped back into the present, leaving Zinnia momentarily disoriented, her head swimming. She stumbled, her vision blurring, the horrifying realization crashing over her. That wasn’t a random jumble of sensations. That was a memory. A real one. Her past self’s carefully constructed amnesia was not as impenetrable as she’d believed. If her true memories returned now, before the takeover audit was complete, the legal loophole – the one that allowed her to claim mental incapacity during the divorce to hide her assets and execute this elaborate revenge – would be exposed. Her entire empire, her meticulously planned vengeance, would collapse, leaving her vulnerable to Garrick. Just as Zinnia swayed, the room tilting under her heels, a strong arm circled her waist, steadying her. Bastian Rohe, impeccably suave in a midnight blue suit, swept her away from Lissette’s furious grasp, smoothly guiding her onto the dance floor. The orchestra, sensing a shift in the room's energy, had segued into a languid, romantic piece. Bastian held her close, his movements fluid, pulling her into the rhythm of the music. “Trouble, Zinnia?” His voice was a low rumble against her ear, laced with an unnerving calm. His gaze, dark and intense, held hers as he navigated them through the other dancers. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Zinnia tried to compose herself, her mind racing. The memory flash had been terrifyingly vivid. She had to deny it, even to herself. “Just a touch of… indigestion. Too much corporate intrigue and bad champagne, I suppose.” Bastian’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Oh, I think it’s a little more than that, Zinnia Corvell.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her temple, the heat of it prickling across her skin. “I know you wiped your memory, Zinnia, and I know exactly what you’re trying to hide.”

Teleprompter Treason