By nine in the morning the house already felt occupied by wires.

  They ran along the baseboards and across the marble floor in loose loops that no one wanted to step on, and a young man in a black polo shirt kept crouching to tape them down with short careful strips while muttering to himself about signal strength and backup routers.

  In the dining room, the long glass table had been pushed against the wall and covered with extension cords, power banks, and two open laptops that hummed softly, their screens filled with small squares of faces waiting to test audio.

  Anya stood near the doorway holding a cup of tea she had not touched, her fingers warm around the porcelain, watching as one of the crew adjusted a ring light and tilted it toward the sofa where she was supposed to sit later.

  “Just a quick run through,” the producer said, clapping his hands once as if they were about to start a school play, and he smiled without looking at her, already turning to ask someone about the WiFi password again.

  From the kitchen came the steady sound of a knife hitting a wooden cutting board, a rhythm that did not change even when someone laughed too loudly in the living room.

  Madam Lian was slicing pears into even pieces for the fruit platter, her rings clicking softly against the knife handle, her shoulders straight as she leaned over the counter.

  “Make sure the camera catches the chandelier,” she called out without raising her voice, and one of the assistants answered, “Yes, Madam,” while dragging a tripod two inches to the left.

  Preecha stood near the staircase, scrolling through his phone with his head slightly bowed, his thumb moving in short strokes, and every few seconds he looked up as if checking that nothing required him.

  A cat sat on the second step, its tail wrapped around its paws, watching the movement below with unblinking eyes.

  No one had tried to move it.

  One of the makeup artists arrived carrying a silver case that snapped open with a sharp sound, and she set it down on the coffee table that had been pushed aside, then wiped her hands on a tissue before touching Anya’s face.

  “Just light,” she said, brushing powder along Anya’s cheeks while leaning in close enough that her breath smelled faintly of mint, “The camera washes people out.”

  Anya nodded and kept her eyes on the producer, who was counting down from five even though nothing had started yet.

  “Testing sound,” he said into his headset, and a voice from the laptop speakers replied with a hollow echo, “We can hear you, a little soft, maybe closer to the mic.”

  The mic was clipped to the neckline of Anya’s dress, and the cable trailed down her back and into a small pack taped against her waist.

  She reached behind her as if to adjust it, then stopped when the makeup artist gently caught her wrist.

  “Do not touch,” the artist said, smiling without showing teeth.

  In the kitchen, a plate slipped and hit the sink with a dull crack, and the housekeeper, a small woman with her hair pulled tight, froze for a moment before checking the edge with her thumb.

  “It is fine,” she said to no one, rinsing it again under running water.

  Madam Lian turned slightly, not enough to leave the counter, and asked, “Careful, please,” then returned to arranging the pear slices in a circle, each piece touching the next.

  “Ready,” the producer announced, and everyone quieted in a way that felt rehearsed.

  The ring light clicked on, flooding the sofa with a bright steady glow that made the gold threads in the cushions shimmer.

  Anya sat where she had been told, smoothing her dress over her knees with both hands, pressing the fabric flat and then pressing it again as if something underneath might move.

  Preecha hesitated at the edge of the frame until someone motioned sharply for him to sit beside her.

  He lowered himself onto the sofa, leaving a small space between them, and clasped his hands together so tightly that his knuckles paled.

  “Three, two, one,” the producer counted, and then he pointed at Anya.

  She smiled, the kind of smile she had practiced in mirrors and in the front camera of her phone, and said, “Good morning everyone, thank you for joining us for a little preview before the big day.”

  Her voice sounded thinner than usual through the speakers, and she cleared her throat lightly before continuing.

  “We wanted to share our happiness with you and answer some questions.”

  A comment popped up on the screen, then another, then a line of hearts that floated upward and disappeared.

  From the dining room, one of the assistants whispered, “The numbers are good,” as if reporting on a patient’s pulse.

  Preecha leaned closer to the microphone, his shoulder brushing Anya’s for a second, and said, “We are grateful for your support,” then glanced toward his mother, who stood just outside the frame with her arms folded.

  The cat had moved down one step and now sat on the floor near the edge of the carpet, its head turning slowly from the lights to the sofa and back again.

  “Can you talk about how you met?” someone asked from the laptop, their voice slightly distorted.

  Anya began the story she had told before, about a mutual friend and a charity event and a spilled drink, and she laughed at the right moment while Preecha nodded, though his gaze drifted toward the camera lens instead of her.

  In the kitchen, water boiled over in a pot and hissed against the stovetop, and the housekeeper rushed to turn the knob, her hand shaking enough that the flame flickered.

  Madam Lian did not move to help.

  She was checking her reflection in the dark screen of a switched off tablet, smoothing the front of her blouse with slow deliberate strokes.

  A comment appeared on the livestream that made one of the assistants suck in a breath.

  “Delete that,” he whispered urgently to the person beside him, who began typing fast with stiff fingers.

  Anya saw the shift in the room before she saw the comment.

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  She kept smiling, but her eyes flicked to the laptop for a fraction of a second, then back to the camera.

  “Next question,” the producer said quickly.

  “Will there be a special performance at the wedding?”

  Preecha answered this one, describing a string quartet and a surprise that he said would be beautiful, though his voice dipped at the end of the sentence and he swallowed before finishing.

  The cat stood up and walked across the edge of the frame, its tail brushing against the tripod.

  The camera shook slightly.

  “Can someone move that animal,” the producer hissed, half crouching as if to shoo it away.

  “It belongs here,” Madam Lian said from behind him, her tone even, and no one argued.

  The assistant who had been deleting comments leaned closer to his screen.

  “There are more,” he murmured, and the other assistant asked, “From where,” and he answered, “Different accounts.”

  Anya heard the word accounts and felt her fingers tighten against the fabric of her dress.

  “What kind of comments,” she asked softly, still smiling toward the camera.

  “Nothing,” the producer said too fast, waving his hand as if brushing away smoke.

  On the screen, a line of text flashed before disappearing.

  Someone in the dining room had not been quick enough.

  “Ask about the maid,” the comment read.

  For a moment the room seemed to hold its breath.

  Preecha shifted on the sofa, his knee bouncing once before he pressed it down with his palm.

  “We will focus on positive questions,” the producer said loudly, as if speaking over static.

  Anya’s smile did not change, but her eyes did not leave the laptop now.

  “People are curious,” she said, her voice steady but lower, “We should not ignore them.”

  Madam Lian stepped forward until she was just outside the camera’s view.

  Her hand rested on the back of the sofa, her fingers spread, nails polished to a pale shine.

  “There is nothing to ignore,” she said, and though she was not wearing a microphone, her voice carried.

  Another comment appeared.

  “Where is Ying.”

  The name stayed on the screen longer this time, because the assistant had frozen.

  Anya inhaled slowly through her nose.

  The housekeeper in the kitchen dropped a spoon, and it clattered against the tile, a small sharp sound that seemed louder than it was.

  Preecha looked at his mother.

  Madam Lian’s fingers tightened against the sofa fabric, leaving slight dents that smoothed out when she lifted her hand.

  “Continue,” she said.

  Anya turned back to the camera.

  “There was a misunderstanding some time ago,” she began, choosing each word as if placing dishes on a shelf, “It has been resolved.”

  The comments multiplied.

  “She did not steal.”

  “She did not fall.”

  “Tell the truth.”

  The producer whispered to someone about cutting the stream, but no one moved to do it.

  The numbers on the screen climbed.

  Preecha opened his mouth, then closed it again, his jaw working slightly as if he were chewing something tough.

  The cat jumped onto the coffee table that had been pushed aside and sat facing the laptop, its eyes reflecting the ring light in two small bright circles.

  From somewhere upstairs came the faint sound of a door closing.

  Anya heard it and felt a small tremor pass through her hands.

  “She was accused,” a voice said through the laptop speakers, not from the crew but from a viewer who had somehow unmuted, “She asked for help.”

  The assistant reached for the keyboard, but the voice continued.

  “She said she did not take the bracelet.”

  Preecha stood up so abruptly that the microphone cable pulled at his collar.

  “That is enough,” he said, and his voice cracked on the last word.

  Madam Lian moved into the frame now, no longer concerned about the camera angle.

  “She was dismissed,” she said, her posture straight, “We handled it privately.”

  The viewer’s voice came again, softer this time.

  “She fell from the balcony.”

  Silence followed, thick and ordinary, like the pause when someone forgets the next line in a speech.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper turned off the stove and wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes fixed on the doorway.

  Anya looked at Preecha.

  He was staring at the floor, at the place where the cable met the base of the tripod.

  “She jumped,” he said finally, the words landing flat.

  The comments slowed.

  Madam Lian’s lips pressed together, then parted.

  “She was unstable,” she added.

  The cat let out a low sound, not loud enough to interrupt, but enough that everyone heard it.

  Anya felt the microphone against her chest rise and fall with her breathing.

  “She said she did not take it,” Anya repeated, and her voice did not shake.

  Preecha lifted his head.

  “She did not,” he said.

  The room seemed to tilt slightly, though nothing moved.

  Madam Lian’s hand dropped to her side.

  “You were not there,” she said quietly.

  “I was,” Preecha answered, and he looked at the camera now instead of at his mother, “I saw the bracelet later. It was in your drawer.”

  No one spoke.

  The producer’s mouth hung open.

  The assistant’s fingers hovered above the keyboard but did not press any keys.

  The viewer’s square on the laptop screen went dark, but the comments continued to scroll.

  In the kitchen, the housekeeper covered her mouth with her hand.

  Madam Lian blinked once, then again.

  “That is not,” she began, then stopped.

  Preecha did not look away.

  “You told me to stay quiet,” he said, and his voice was steady now, almost calm, “You said it would ruin everything.”

  The ring light hummed faintly.

  Outside, a car horn sounded from the street and then faded.

  Anya sat very still, her hands resting open on her knees.

  No one had cut the stream.

  Thousands of small hearts floated upward on the screen, mixed with words that no one tried to delete.

  From the doorway leading to the hall, a man stood watching.

  Some would later say he had been there all along.

  He wore a simple shirt and held nothing in his hands.

  His face was ordinary, the kind that could be remembered differently by different people.

  He did not step forward.

  He did not speak.

  He waited.

  Madam Lian lowered herself slowly into the armchair beside the sofa, her movements careful, as if her joints hurt.

  “She was afraid,” she said after a long pause, her gaze fixed on the fruit platter in the kitchen, “She begged.”

  The housekeeper began to cry quietly, the sound small and wet.

  Preecha closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again.

  “I did nothing,” he said.

  Anya looked at him, then at Madam Lian.

  “You accused her,” she said softly.

  Madam Lian’s shoulders dropped.

  “I did,” she answered.

  The words were simple.

  They did not echo.

  The man in the doorway inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a greeting.

  No one else seemed to notice him.

  On the laptop screen, the comments slowed to a crawl.

  The producer reached forward at last and pressed a key.

  The livestream ended.

  The ring light clicked off.

  In the sudden softer light, the room looked smaller, almost ordinary again, wires still on the floor, fruit still on the counter, a cat sitting calmly on the table.

  The man in the doorway was gone.