Page 140 of The Owner's Temptation

Mine.

The event unfolds exactly as Lorenzo intended—until the part he didn’t write.

Dinner is served.

The servers move in perfect unison, synchronized like dancers. Dozens of plates are set before the guests with silver domes polished so perfectly, the chandeliers glint off their surface.

The room hushes, anticipating the dramatic reveal.

Cameras ready. Eyes glinting.

One beat.

Two.

Then the serversliftthe domes—all at once.

A hush falls across the room as confused faces take in what they see on their gilded chargers.

Then beautifully, the roomerupts.

Dead rats.

Dozens. Hundreds.

Lying lifeless, limp, and grotesque on every plate. Some twisted in rigor, some still wet from whatever gutter they were pulled from. The scent—rotting fur, death, sewer—is instantaneous.

Screams rise like a symphony.

The string section begins with the gasps.

The brass erupts with shrieking violins of horror.

The percussion hits when someonevomitsonto the floor.

“Oh my God—what is that?—”

“Get it away from me?—”

“Jesus Christ! Are those—rats?!”

Politicians leap to their feet, knocking over crystal glasses. A woman in a Dior gown scrambles onto her chair. A senator's wife faints. Another slips on spilled champagne, her diamond tiara skidding across the floor.

And then the real show begins.

A softhissfills the air—barely audible over the chaos.

The ceiling vents slide open with silent precision.

The gas is odorless. Harmless. Just enough to heighten the senses. To make everything feel more raw. Morereal.

And then—they fall.

Hundreds–thousands of live rats, spilling like a biblical plague from the ceiling.

They hit the floor and scatter. A wave of squealing, gnashing teeth. They skitter over heels, climb up satin gowns, crawl beneath tables.

The chaos becomescarnage.

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