Chapter 156 Ruining The High Society Elites
"I am the board now," I interrupted. "I acquired the controlling debt of your hospital network two days ago. You are fired, Javier. Your medical license is currently under review by the federal ethics committee, funded by a massive grant from Aegis. You will never walk the halls of a hospital again unless you are a patient."
Javier slumped forward, his head hitting the back of the seat in front of him.
I looked at Tristan. He was staring at Javier, his hands clenched into fists. His chest heaved. He had not known the details of that night. He had not known how close we came to dying while he sat in a boardroom negotiating his fake engagement. A tear tracked down Tristan’s cheek, catching the harsh stage light. He did not wipe it away. He let the world see his shame.
"Penelope Ashcroft," I said.
A woman in the back row let out a sharp gasp. Penelope ran the capital’s largest commercial bank. She was the one who had tried to kidnap Elias in the parking garage.
"You tried to take my son," I said. The anger finally bled into my voice, cracking the cold facade. "You brought armed men to a hospital to rip a child from his mother’s arms because you thought my bloodline was a threat to your stock portfolio."
I pulled up the final set of documents.
"These are the foreclosure notices for the Ashcroft corporate properties," I announced. "I bought your debt from Thomas Whitmore right before the marshals arrested him. I am calling in the loans today. Every single one. You have until five o'clock to produce four hundred million dollars, Penelope. Or I take your homes, your cars, and your company."
Penelope stood up. She did not cry. She looked at me with pure venom. "You are a monster. You are worse than the men you just locked up."
"I am exactly what you made me," I replied.
I leaned over the podium. I looked at the hundreds of faces staring back at me. They were broken. The arrogance had been stripped away, leaving only fear.
"For three years, you called me trash," I said. "You threw me in the dirt and you built your empires on top of me. You mocked my clothes. You mocked my mother’s name. You laughed at my pain because you thought money made you untouchable."
I stepped away from the podium. I walked to the edge of the stage, looking down at them.
"Money does not make you gods," I told them. "It just makes you a target. And today, I own the target. I own the banks. I own the leases. I own the Johnston name."
I turned back to the console and hit a button. The electronic locks on the auditorium doors disengaged with a loud clack.
"Get out of my building," I commanded.
They did not hesitate. The elite class of the capital scrambled for the doors. They pushed past each other, dropping briefcases and coats in their rush to escape the room. The cameras captured every second of their frantic, humiliating retreat. They looked like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
Within minutes, the massive auditorium was empty. The floor was littered with discarded papers and designer accessories.
The media crews packed up their gear in silence, casting nervous glances at the stage before slipping out the back doors.
Tristan and I were the only ones left.
I stood at the edge of the stage. My hands began to shake. The adrenaline crash hit me hard, draining the strength from my legs. I fell to my knees, the rough fabric of my trousers scraping against the wood.
I had done it. I had faced them all and torn them down. I had cleared my mother’s name. I had secured my son’s future.
Tristan lowered himself onto the stage beside me. He moved with careful, agonizing slowness. He did not wrap his arms around me. He did not pull me into his chest. He simply sat next to me, offering his presence.
"You ended it," Tristan whispered. His voice was raw. "You burned it all down."
"It doesn't feel like a victory," I admitted. A tear slipped down my chin, landing on the dark wood of the stage. "It just feels heavy."
"That is because you are carrying the truth," he said. He looked at me, his gray eyes full of a painful, desperate reverence. "And the truth is always heavy. I am so sorry, Minerva. For everything I let them do to you."
He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the stage floor at my knees. It was a complete surrender. The billionaire groveling in the ruins of his own empire.
I reached out. My fingers brushed the dark hair at the nape of his neck. He shuddered at the contact.
A slow clap echoed through the empty auditorium.
The sound bounced off the high ceiling, sharp and mocking.
I jerked my head up. Tristan lifted his face, his body tensing into a defensive crouch.
Standing in the shadows of the highest balcony, silhouetted against the exit sign, was Celeste Whitmore.
She did not look like the polished socialite who had played the perfect fiancée. Her hair was a tangled mess. Her dress was torn at the hem. She held something small and black in her right hand.
"Bravo, Minerva," Celeste called out. Her voice wavered, thin and frantic. "A spectacular performance. You took the company. You ruined my father. You put the king on his knees."
She stepped up onto the railing of the balcony. It was a fifty-foot drop to the seats below.
"Celeste, step down," Tristan ordered. He tried to stand, but his wounded side gave out, forcing him back to the floor.
"I lost everything today!" Celeste screamed. Her mask of sanity finally shattered. "My trust fund is gone! My father is in federal custody! The whole world thinks I am a joke!"
She looked down at us, her eyes wide and wild.
"Did you really think I would let you take my life and just walk away to live your happy ending?" Celeste asked. She raised the black object in her hand. It was not a weapon. It was a digital trigger.
"I visited the lower security levels while you were busy giving your speech," Celeste said. A manic smile stretched across her face. "I left a present near the main load-bearing pillars."
My blood turned to ice.
Celeste pressed her thumb against the button.