The moment Alexander pulled off his cap and shades and uttered those chilling words-"My name is Peeta. Peeta Brian"-the entire crowd froze in stunned silence. It was a moment so heavy, so unspeakably shocking, that even the birds overhead seemed to pause in their flight.
A gasp thundered across the grandstands, rolling like a wave from the front rows to the very back. A lady in a pearl-studded hat dropped her opera glasses. A man clutched his cane tighter. There were audible exclamations, sharp intakes of breath, and then a crashing silence, as though all of Victoria's estate had lost its voice.
Peeta stood still, his shaved face now exposed to the world. His eyes, dark as iron and calm as a still pond, bore into the heart of the storm he had just unleashed. He didn't flinch. Not when the crowd erupted into murmurs. Not even when dozens of hands pointed at him. Eric's voice cracked first. "Sir... it's him. It's Peeta." Mr. Linton, frozen in his stance just steps away from the man he believed to be a mere anonymous racer, did not respond. His eyes were wide. Wider than Eric had ever seen. His mouth moved slightly, trying to form words, but all that came out was breath. Just breath. "No," Linton rasped. "No... that's not-" But it was. The name echoed again, louder this time, rippling through the crowd: "Peeta Brian!" And with it came memory. Fear. Hatred. Love. Betrayal. All of it smashed into Linton's chest like a freight train.
Linton took a step back. His right hand reached instinctively for his heart. He staggered. Another step. The blood drained from his face. "Sir?" Eric shouted, catching his arm. "Sir!" The great Mr. Linton Getty, architect of empires, commander of wealth, symbol of legacy and power-collapsed. Gasps became screams. "Get a doctor!" someone yelled. Chaos consumed the grandstands as people surged forward, eager to see, to understand, to be part of whatever history was unraveling in front of them. Security tried in vain to form a barrier. Paramedics were already running across the emerald field, pushing through bodies with gurneys and kits. Peeta did not move. Even as his brother crumpled to the earth. Even as Eric screamed his name. Even as the world trembled. He stood like a sentinel-a man who had waited far too long for this moment.
And then came the law.
From the far corners of the estate, a contingent of uniformed officers stormed the scene. Boots pounded turf. Guns holstered, eyes blazing, they moved with calculated speed. Some surrounded the unconscious Linton. Others made a beeline for Peeta. "Hands up!" barked a commanding voice. "Step away from the horse! Step away now!" Peeta raised his hands slowly, a calm expression still carved across his face. "Do you know who I am?" he said. The lead officer did not hesitate. "Yes. That's why we're here." Handcuffs clicked. Cold steel locked around his wrists. But still, Peeta's eyes didn't waver. He scanned the crowd, found a few familiar faces-faces that once sat in boardrooms, at garden parties, behind microphones. Some of them flinched. "I told you I'd return," he whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. They led him away as the murmurs roared. And behind it all, lying on the grass, was Linton Getty-his face ghost-pale, his empire suddenly vulnerable. The war between the brothers had just become public. And the world would never be the same.