“Smile, you look like a tired cow and tonight I need a queen for the photos!”: A CEO’s brutal humiliation of his pregnant wife seconds before being discovered.

PART 1: The Gala of Lies

The champagne in my glass tasted metallic, as if I were drinking liquid gold mixed with blood.

My name is Isabella. I am twenty-six years old and seven months pregnant, which feels less like a blessing and more like an anchor tying me to the bottom of the ocean. The ocean, in this case, is the ballroom of the Majestic Hotel, where three hundred of the corporate elite have gathered to celebrate the tenth anniversary of Dominion Tech, my husband Alexander’s company.

Alexander is by my side, his hand resting possessively on my lower back. To the cameras and investors, it is a gesture of protective love. To me, it is a physical warning: “Don’t move. Don’t speak. Smile.” His fingers dig into my flesh, right where a bruise from last week is barely beginning to fade under layers of professional concealer.

“You’re slouching, Bella,” he whispers in my ear. His voice is smooth, velvety, the same voice he uses to close multi-million dollar deals. “Straighten your back. You look like a tired cow, and tonight I need a queen.”

The pain in my kidneys is sharp, stabbing. I have been standing for three hours in stilettos, bearing the weight of my belly and the even greater weight of my fear. The air smells of expensive perfumes and hypocrisy. I see the wives of other executives looking at me with envy, dazzled by the five-carat diamond on my finger, ignoring that it is just a shiny shackle.

“I need to sit down, Alex. Please,” I beg quietly, feeling my legs tremble. “The baby…”

Alexander’s smile does not falter, but his eyes darken. They are shark eyes, black and empty. “We’ll go to the terrace,” he says, guiding me with unnecessary force. “We need a ‘private’ moment for the sunset photos.”

He drags me toward the French doors. The night air is cold, but the real ice is in my husband’s gaze. We are alone in the gloom of the VIP terrace, away from the bustle of the party. He releases me with a shove.

“You are embarrassing me,” he hisses, cornering me against the stone railing. “I gave you everything. This life, these clothes, that house. And you can’t handle a single night without complaining.”

“It hurts…” I try to say, but tears betray me.

“Stop crying!” he shouts, losing his composure. He raises his hand, that perfectly manicured hand that signs mass layoffs, and brings it down with brutal force across my cheek.

The sound of the slap is dry, like a branch snapping. My head snaps violently. I taste iron in my mouth. I stumble, clutching my belly, waiting for the next blow. But then, in the darkness of the ornamental bushes, something breaks the silence. It isn’t a scream. It isn’t the wind.

It is the mechanical, rapid, and rhythmic sound of a camera shutter firing in a burst. Click-click-click-click.

What unmistakable detail shone in the lens of the hidden camera that made Alexander realize his executioner was not a stranger, but someone from his past he thought he had destroyed?

PART 2: The Eye of Revenge

Revenge is a dish best served in high resolution, at 24 megapixels per second.

My name is Camila. To the world, I am “Nobody.” A freelance photographer who sells exclusives to tabloids, a paparazzo living in the shadows chasing celebrities. But to the woman who was just beaten on that terrace, I am her older sister. The sister that Alexander, that monster in an Armani suit, expelled from her life three years ago under threats of lawsuits and fake restraining orders.

He told Isabella that I was a drug addict, a thief, a bad influence. He isolated my sister so he could break her without witnesses. But he made the classic mistake of narcissists: underestimating the patience of someone with nothing to lose.

I have been planning this for six months. I infiltrated the event’s vendor list under the fake name “Elena Rivas,” a lighting assistant. I dyed my hair black, wore brown contact lenses, and lost twenty pounds. No one looks at the service staff. We are invisible. We are the furniture.

From my position, hidden between the leaves of a large decorative plant and the velvet curtains, I have the perfect angle. My camera, a professional Sony Alpha with a fast-aperture telephoto lens, is an extension of my arm. I do not shake. My breathing is slow and controlled, like a sniper’s.

I have captured everything. Frame 1: The rage contorting Alexander’s “perfect” face. Frame 2: The hand in the air, tense, charged with violence. Frame 3: The impact. My sister’s skin deforming under the blow. The absolute terror in her tear-filled eyes. Frame 4: Alexander adjusting his shirt cufflinks immediately after, as if he had just swatted a fly.

When the sound of my shutter alerted him, I saw panic cross his face for the first time. He looked toward the bushes and saw the red reflection of the focus sensor. “Who’s there?” he growled, releasing Isabella and advancing toward my hiding spot.

I didn’t run. Not yet. I needed him to see who was going to destroy him. I stepped out of the shadows, lowering the camera slowly. I took off my uniform cap. “Hello, brother-in-law,” I said. My voice didn’t tremble.

He stopped dead in his tracks, pale as a corpse. “Camila?” he whispered, incredulous. “Security! Security!”

“Scream all you want,” I replied, lifting my camera. “I have a high-speed Wi-Fi transmitter connected to this camera. The photos aren’t on the memory card, Alexander. They are already in the cloud. And in three minutes, they will be in the emails of the Board of Directors, your main investors, and of course, TMZ and El País.”

Alexander’s arrogance returned suddenly, fueled by desperation. He laughed, a nervous, broken laugh. “No one will believe you. You’re trash paparazzi. I’ll say they are Deepfakes. I’ll say it’s Artificial Intelligence. I have the best lawyers in the country. I will destroy you, Camila. I will put you in jail for extortion.”

He took a step toward me, threateningly. Isabella, still holding her red cheek, screamed: “Don’t touch her, Alex!”

Alexander ignored her. “Give me the camera,” he ordered, approaching with clenched fists. “Now. Or I swear that…”

“That you’ll hit me like you hit her?” I interrupted him, taking a step back toward the ballroom door. “Do it. Please, do it. There are three hundred people on the other side of that glass.”

At that moment, the phones inside the ballroom began to ring. It was a progressive sound, like a growing wave. Ping. Ping. Ping. Notifications. News alerts. WhatsApp messages. I watched through the glass as the guests pulled out their mobiles. I saw the smiles wiped away. I saw the Japanese investors frown and look toward the terrace.

Alexander heard it too. The murmur inside the hall stopped, replaced by a deathly silence.

“I think your AI alibi just died, Alex,” I said with a cold smile. “Because the footage includes audio. I’m wearing a lavalier mic. I recorded everything you said to her. ‘You are embarrassing me.’ ‘Tired cow.’ Everything.”

Alexander turned to Isabella. “Tell them it’s a lie,” he ordered her, but this time his voice trembled. “Tell them we were acting. Say something, damn it. Think about the company! Think about the money!”

Isabella straightened up. Despite the smeared makeup and the red mark on her face, for the first time in years, I saw my real sister. She touched her belly, protecting her son, and then looked at the man who had turned her into a luxury prisoner. “No,” she said. It was a simple word, but it weighed tons.

Alexander lunged at me, desperate to snatch the camera, the only proof of his true nature. But I was ready. I’m not just a photographer; I’ve survived on the streets chasing dangerous stories. I dodged his clumsy attempt to grab me and tripped him. The great CEO of Dominion Tech fell face-first onto the marble floor of the terrace, just as the doors flew open.

It wasn’t security who entered first. It was the head of the Board, an older man with a grim face, followed by dozens of guests with their own phones recording the scene. Alexander was on the floor, humiliated, at the feet of the two sisters he thought he could silence.

“Mr. Alexander,” said the Board head, looking at his mobile screen where the photo of the slap was already viral. “I think we need to talk about your morality clause.”