The Buzzkill Wife Who Signed Their Paychecks

"Hold that paper up to camera two, Brett," I ordered through the master headset.

Brett flinched. The clipboard remained on the floor at his feet. He clutched the single sheet of paper the intern had handed him, his knuckles stark white under the harsh studio lighting.

"I said, hold it up," I repeated, my voice booming across the silent auditorium. "Let the audience see what Legal just faxed you."

"Vivian, this is a private corporate document," Brett stammered, stepping backward. "You are violating a dozen confidentiality clauses right now."

"I waive my right to confidentiality," I replied. "Camera two, tight focus on his hands."

The red tally light on camera two flared to life. Brett looked up at the control booth glass. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, trickling down his jaw. He slowly raised the document toward the heavy lens.

I tapped the main display toggle. The high-definition image of the Master Shareholder Registry plastered itself across the twenty-foot LED wall behind Grant.

"Scroll to the second line," I instructed the camera operator.

The lens zoomed in, cutting off the top margin. The bold text filled the screen. Second Largest Shareholder. The name beside it remained blurred, a thick gray censor block I had programmed into the feed ten minutes ago.

"I have a simple question for everyone in this room," I said, leaning closer to the microphone. My voice echoed off the high steel rafters. "Why should someone who doesn't even own the show decide who gets to stay in the picture?"

The audience remained dead silent. Four million viewers at home watched a man's career disintegrate in real time.

Grant stared at the massive screen. The blood rushed out of his face, leaving a sickly, pale mask. He spun around, his eyes wild, searching the control booth windows.

"Viv," Grant called out.

The nickname sliced through the heavy silence of the studio. He pushed past the first security guard, ignoring the warning hand on his chest. He stopped right below the booth, craning his neck upward.

"Viv, honey, listen to me," Grant said. His voice cracked, losing its polished, booming television resonance. He offered a weak, trembling smile, his eyes begging. "Let's just talk about this. You and me. We can figure this out."

Eleven years.

He hadn't called me that in eleven years. Not since the night we sat in a cramped attorney's office, signing our prenuptial agreement. I had scrubbed my name from every trust fund, hiding the massive Lattimer fortune behind shell companies. I needed to know if the struggling sports commentator loved the woman sitting across from him, or the bank account she was born into.

I got my answer. The test was officially over.

I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes fixed on the glowing grid of monitors.

"We are done talking, Grant," I said.

"Come on, baby," Grant pleaded. He gripped the edge of the stage, his fingers digging into the polished wood. "You're upset. I get it. The producers pushed me to say those things. It was for the ratings. You know how this business works! It's all just a game for the cameras."

"I do know how it works," I replied. "That's why I'm canceling your season."

"You cannot do that!" Marcus shouted from the back of the booth. He took a heavy step toward me, then froze as I shifted my hand over the main power override switch. "We have sponsors! Millions of dollars in advertising contracts! The network will sue you into bankruptcy!"

"The sponsors signed with Apex Media," I reminded him, my tone flat. "And Apex Media is restructuring its entire talent roster tonight."

Down on the floor, Theo finally moved. He dropped his microphone. It hit the stage with a loud electronic squeal. He stared at his father, then up at the giant screen, his teenage arrogance entirely stripped away.

"Dad," Theo whispered, the lapel mic catching his trembling voice. "What is she doing? Are we getting fired?"

"Shut up, Theo," Grant snapped, not taking his eyes off the booth. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Vivian, please. Just turn off the cameras. We will go home. We will fix this off the air. I promise."

"I am fixing it," I said.

I typed a final command into the terminal. A prompt flashed on my screen, waiting for confirmation.

"You spent six months writing a script where I was the villain," I said, making sure the stadium speakers broadcast every syllable. "You convinced millions of people that I was holding this family back. Now, the audience gets to see the real uncut footage."

"What footage?" Brett yelled from the stage. He dropped the registry. "Vivian, whatever you have, you do not have network clearance to air it! The legal department will have you arrested before you even leave that booth!"

"I clear my own content," I said.

I hit the enter key.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, my voice steady and cold. "In exactly sixty seconds, this live feed will switch to a broadcast I personally prepared."

A massive digital clock appeared in the top right corner of the twenty-foot LED wall.

00:60.

The numbers flashed bright red.

00:59.

00:58.

The audience gasped. A low wave of frantic whispers swept through the stadium seating. People pulled out their phones, pointing their cameras at the giant screen.

"Cut the feed!" Grant screamed, his voice tearing. He grabbed the nearest floor manager by the collar. "Unplug the main cables! Do it now! Rip them out of the wall if you have to!"

The floor manager shoved Grant away, stumbling backward. "I do not have the override codes! She locked out the entire floor panel!"

00:50.

Carmen bolted from her front-row seat. The crimson designer dress tangled around her legs as she scrambled toward the nearest exit.

"Camera four, track the woman in red," I ordered.

The massive screen split again. The countdown dominated the left side. On the right, Carmen's panicked retreat played out in high definition. She pushed past a row of stunned spectators, her hands shielding her face from the glaring lights.

00:42.

"Stop her!" Grant yelled, pointing at the security guards. "Do not let her leave! She has to explain this!"

The guards didn't move a muscle. They stood like statues, their eyes fixed on the ticking clock.

"They do not take orders from you," I said softly into the mic.

00:35.

Marcus lunged for the heavy steel door of the control booth. He grabbed the handle, yanking it downward. It didn't budge.

"It is locked," Marcus gasped, rattling the metal handle. He spun around, his face pale with raw panic. "Vivian, unlock the door! You cannot trap me in here! This is a fire hazard!"

"You locked yourself in when you decided to produce a fraud," I said, ignoring his outburst.

00:25.

Theo covered his face with his hands. He sank to his knees on the polished stage floor, the bright studio lights beating down on his shaking shoulders.

Grant abandoned the floor manager and sprinted toward the metal stairs leading up to the booth. He took the steps two at a time, his polished dress shoes clanging against the steel grates.

He reached the locked door and slammed his fists against the thick glass window.

"Vivian!" Grant roared, his face contorted in rage and terror. He pounded the glass again. "Stop the clock! Whatever you want, I will sign it! I will give you everything! Just do not play that video!"

"I already own everything," I replied.

00:15.

The stadium fell completely silent. The angry murmurs, the shouting, the frantic footsteps, everything faded away. The only sound left in the massive room was the heavy, rhythmic thud of Grant's fists hitting the glass, and the electronic beep of the timer.

00:14.

00:13.

Grant pressed his forehead against the window. His breath fogged the glass.

"Please," he whispered, the microphone picking up his broken voice.

I rested my hand on the main broadcast switch, watching the giant red numbers tick downward on the screen, the entire studio holding its breath.