My High-Society Father Dismissed My Supersonic Jet Warnings As Hysteria Until He Crashed The Simulator — Then The Defense Board Forced Me To Take His Place
General Kensington stepped forward, his face grim. He raised a hand, silencing the murmurs in the hangar. His gaze, sweeping over the assembly, held a clear intent to bring order and judgment to the chaos. He turned to Arthur, his mouth opening as if to issue a formal charge.
The press feed, projected onto a large screen near the entrance, showed a live shot of the hangar, confirming the entire world was watching this unfolding drama. The implication was clear: Arthur Harrington was about to be publicly stripped of his titles, his reputation, and quite possibly, his freedom.
But Arthur moved first.
With a sudden, unexpected burst of energy, he lunged towards the podium. His hand shot out, not at me, but at a discreet, industrial-grade cut-off switch recessed into the side of the platform.
A loud thud echoed through the hangar.
The screen projecting the live broadcast immediately went black. The press feed, the connection to the outside world, was severed. The flashing red light on the camera at the back of the room winked out.
A sudden, jarring silence followed, heavy and suffocating. The confrontation, the public accounting, the reckoning I had fought for—it was abruptly cut short.
Without a single word, without granting me the satisfaction of an apology or a full confession, Arthur Harrington turned on his heel. His gaze was cold, empty. He ignored everyone in the room, his eyes fixed on a private side door at the rear of the hangar.
He walked with stiff, rigid strides, a man utterly defeated but defiantly refusing to acknowledge it. The side door hissed open, revealing the waiting silhouette of a black town car. Arthur stepped through, and the door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving the confrontation abruptly unfinished, the stage empty.
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