Once I reached a small alcove away from the ballroom’s chaos, I took a moment to breathe and assess the situation. I had the upper hand now, but I needed to be careful about my next move.

The red dot of the recording was a silent promise of accountability. That video, along with the legal clause I had mentioned, was the ace up my sleeve—a clause that could seize my father’s company if certain lines were crossed, lines he had now leaped over with blinding arrogance.

I knew what I had to do. I reached for my phone, calling my legal team. They had been on standby, anticipating an incident, but perhaps not one of such public spectacle. This was no longer just a family matter; this was a legal battle that would change everything.

As I made the call, the enormity of what I was about to unleash finally hit me. It was freeing and terrifying all at once, but I was ready. Ready to stand up for myself, to take back control from a family who had never truly valued me.

The recording of the event would spread, a testament to the truth of what had happened that night. And as I watched the chaos unfold from my quiet corner, I felt the first inkling of hope—a hope that from this moment of crisis, something new and better could emerge.