"Stop the show," I said into the microphone as the projector clicked to life. A slide filled the screen: a timestamped photo of George with Dalary, their faces pressed close, a hotel receipt half visible on a table. I let the music fade and laughed like I was sharing a private joke. "Enjoy the show," I said. Gasps rolled like a wave. Someone laughed. Then silence spread faster than the music had. "Is that—" Mrs. Hale from finance mouthed, her champagne frozen halfway to her lips. "George?" a bridesmaid asked, voice thin. George moved so fast the groom persona ripped away. He lunged toward the AV table, fingers closing around the projector cable. "Don't you dare," he snarled. "Hands off the equipment!" the technician shouted. He was already too slow. George yanked the plug. The room dimmed to emergency lights. Phones lit up. A dozen devices glowed at once around the ballroom like a ring of tiny moons. A text thread burst: CHURCH-WEDDING-2025. The link I had sent two minutes ago started pinging across screens. "What's on the link?" someone called. "Open it!" an elderly aunt shouted. George shoved the tech away and advanced toward me. He tried to smile. It landed somewhere between anger and panic. "You can't do this," he said. His words were quiet but sharp. "Not tonight." "I already did," I said. He lunged; his hand went for the mic stand. I stepped aside. He missed. "Hands off my cousin," Remy yelled