"Cut the feed!" Ken screamed into his headset. "Cut the damn feed!"
The screens went black, but the room was still chaotic. Security guards formed a human shield around the table, holding back the mob of reporters who smelled blood.
Bastian didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at Julian, who was smiling like a Cheshire cat at the podium.
He grabbed Anaïs's arm.
His grip was tight. Too tight.
"Backstage," Bastian ordered, his voice unrecognizable. "Now."
He scooped Sacha up with his other arm. Sacha was trembling, clutching the robot—the robot that was now evidence of a lie.
They rushed through the heavy velvet curtains, down the dark corridor, and into the Green Room.
Ken slammed the door shut and locked it. The roar of the press was muffled, but the silence inside was worse.
Bastian put Sacha down on the sofa.
Then he turned to Anaïs.
He looked like a man who had been shot but was refusing to fall down. His face was pale, his eyes wide and searching.
