The Architect of Scandal

Dearest Readers, Richmond Hill crackles tonight, its whispers slick and cutting,

the kind that smile first and wound after. This is not idle talk or bored bacchanal.

This is the sort of scandal that spreads because someone made sure it would.

Tonight’s story drags us back to the late nineties and early two-thousands, when Channel 77

ruled West Indian living rooms and familiarity bred trust. At the center of

the screen sat a beloved television host, polished, warm,

and carefully framed as domestic perfection. A husband. Two children. A life arranged

neatly enough to quiet even the most observant neighbor. But the camera, as always,