“Bennett,” the host repeated. Her maiden name. “What is this?” **Madeline**, my billionaire wife, shrieked, jumping to her feet and shattering the decorum.
“This is a mistake! Where is **Carter’s** name?” At that moment, the screen flashed the lowest-tier consolation list.
The name of Carter—her son, entirely propped up by my money—sat dead last at the bottom.
“This is rigged!” Madeline screamed, slamming her hands against the velvet railing.
“I paid top dollar! How does my son lose to two fatherless nobodies?!”
Crushed by the sheer magnitude of the truth, I looked at Madeline’s distorted, ugly face, then back at the stage where my flesh and blood stood like conquering kings.
The brilliance I had thrown away to buy this gilded cage was suffocating me.
“**Adrian**, do something!” Madeline grabbed my lapel, her nails digging into the silk.
“You are the primary sponsor! Demand a recount! Crush those kids!” With terrifying speed, I grabbed her wrist and peeled her hand off me.
