Chapter 147
Lena's POV
The room was packed. Cameras lined the back wall, their red lights already glowing. Reporters filled every seat, phones out, recorders running. I recognized faces from the Times, the Post, the legal blogs that had covered Nexus's scandals.
They all went silent as I walked to the podium.
Diana stood to my left, Emily to my right. Rowan had disappeared into the back corner, a shadow against the wall, exactly as promised.
I set my statement on the podium, adjusted the microphone. The paper crinkled too loud in the sudden quiet.
Someone coughed. A camera shutter clicked.
I looked out at all those faces—curious, skeptical, hungry for a story—and felt that seven-year-old girl in my dream, still curled in the corner, still believing it was her fault.
I'm here, I told her silently. I'm standing up. Watch me.
I cleared my throat. Began to read.
"My name is Lena Grant. I am thirty years old. And for the first twenty-three years of my life, I was the victim of systematic abuse at the hands of my father, Marcus Grant."
The room erupted.
Cameras flashed. Reporters shouted questions. Someone's phone clattered to the floor.
I kept my eyes on the page. Kept reading.
"Today, I am filing a RICO complaint against Marcus Grant and the criminal organization he has used to perpetrate violence, fraud, and murder for over two decades. This statement is part of that filing. It is also my choice to speak publicly, because silence has never protected me. It only protected him."
My voice stayed steady. I don't know how.
"The abuse began when I was seven years old..."
I read every word. The beatings. The staged accidents. The photos Marcus kept as insurance. The night Dr. Williams came to the house and lied to my face about how I'd gotten hurt.
I read about my grandfather's murder. About the $200,000 payoff. About the forged death certificate.
I read about Silverpine Advisory, the criminal network that had enabled all of it.
And I read about why I was standing there, refusing to be silent.
"I am standing up today because I want every child who is being hurt right now to know: it is not your fault. You are not alone. And there are people who will fight for you, even when your own family won't."
My voice cracked on the last line. I gripped the podium, forced myself to look up.
Every camera was on me. Every recorder. Every phone.
"I'll take questions now," I said.
The room exploded again.
"Ms. Grant, where is your father now—"
"Has he responded to these allegations—"
"What evidence do you have—"
Diana stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise. "We have submitted over three hundred pages of documentation to federal prosecutors. Medical records, financial transactions, witness testimony. This is not a he-said-she-said situation. This is a criminal case backed by evidence."
More questions, cascading over each other. I answered what I could. Referred the rest to Diana.
And then, in the back of the room, someone's phone buzzed. Then another. A ripple of electronic noise spreading through the crowd.
A reporter near the front looked up from her screen, face pale. "Ms. Grant, are you aware that someone just posted what appear to be... photographs? Of you as a child?"
My heart stopped.
"The account is anonymous," she continued. "But they're being shared rapidly on social media. And there's a statement attached claiming you fabricated this entire story for—" She hesitated. "For financial gain and attention."
The room spun.
Diana was already on her phone. Emily's hand found my shoulder. And from the back of the room, I heard Rowan's voice, low and furious: "Get me a location on that account. Now."
I gripped the podium, forced myself to speak into the microphone.
"I knew this would happen," I said, and was shocked by how calm I sounded. "I knew that the moment I spoke publicly, Marcus would try to use my trauma as a weapon. That's what abusers do when they lose control—they escalate."
I looked directly into the nearest camera.
"Those photos are evidence of crimes. Possession and distribution of child abuse material. Anyone sharing them is complicit. And Marcus—" My voice hardened. "If you're watching this: you've just committed several federal offenses in the last five minutes. I hope it was worth it."
Someone's phone rang. Jack's voice in my earpiece—when had he put that there?—tight with urgency: "Lena, you need to clear the room. Now."
But I wasn't done.
"I'm not going to be silent," I said into the microphone. "I'm not going to hide. And I'm not going to let a monster dictate how I tell my story. This press conference is over, but the fight isn't. Thank you."
I stepped back from the podium as chaos erupted around me.
Diana was already ushering people out. David materialized at my elbow, murmuring about secured exits. Emily's face was white with fury.
And Rowan—Rowan pushed through the crowd like a man possessed, his hand finding mine, grip tight enough to hurt.
"We're leaving," he said. Not a question.
I nodded.
We were halfway to the door when my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
[You think you've won? You just painted a target on your back. Watch yourself, little girl.]
I showed it to Rowan.
His face went absolutely cold.
"Get her out of here," he told David. Then, to me: "I need to make a call."
"Rowan—"
"Trust me." His eyes met mine, fierce and full of promises I couldn't quite read. "Please."
I let David guide me toward the exit, Emily on my other side, Diana running interference with the remaining press.
Behind us, I heard Rowan's voice, low and deadly, already on the phone: "Dad. It's time to act."
The door closed behind us, and Silverton's skyline spread out through the glass walls—glittering, indifferent, unaware that somewhere in those streets, my father was watching.
Waiting.
Planning his next move.
But for the first time in my life, I wasn't afraid of what he'd do next.
I was ready.