The courtroom cameras clicked like distant thunder.
Lucia stood at the defense table, wrists bound, chin tilted defiantly despite the circles beneath her eyes.
Elaine watched from a private livestream in the back office of the art center. She didn't want to be seen—but she needed to see.
“Miss Lucia Whitaker," the prosecutor's voice boomed, “you are charged with fraud, embezzlement, and defamation. How do you plead?"
Lucia smirked. “Not guilty."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Elaine leaned forward slightly.
The screen cut to exhibit footage—each falsified audit trail, bank transfer, security clip. The video of the sky garden incident played in silence.
Lucia's hand yanked Elaine's arm.
Elaine stumbling.
Lucia falling—but alone.
---
In the New York gallery of cameras and whispe
