Chapter 146
Lena's POV
The Silverton Press Club occupied the top three floors of a glass tower in the financial district. By the time our car pulled up at 8:40 AM, a cluster of news vans already lined the street, satellite dishes angled toward the sky.
David and two other members of his security team flanked me as we entered through the side entrance. Rowan walked three steps behind, close enough to intervene, far enough to avoid cameras. His face was carved from stone.
Diana met us in the greenroom, immaculate in a charcoal suit, her expression all business. "Twenty-three outlets confirmed. Live stream is set. We're ready when you are."
"Good." I set down my bag, pulled out the statement. My hands didn't shake. That surprised me.
"Lena." Diana's voice gentled slightly. "You don't have to read all of it. If it gets to be too much, I can take over—"
"I'm reading every word." I looked up at her. "This is my story. I'm the one who tells it."
She nodded, a flicker of something like pride crossing her face. "Then let's make sure they listen."
Emily arrived minutes later, pulled me into a quick, fierce hug. "You've got this. And if you don't, we've got you."
Rachel was checking microphones, Sophia adjusting camera angles. The room hummed with controlled chaos, everyone moving with the precision of a team that knew the stakes.
I was scanning my opening paragraph one final time when the greenroom door slammed open.
Vivian stood in the doorway, her hair slightly disheveled, her Chanel suit wrinkled. I'd never seen her anything less than immaculate.
"Lena." Her voice was raw. "We need to talk. Now."
The greenroom cleared in seconds. Diana tried to stay—"Mrs. Grant, this isn't the time"—but I waved her off.
"Five minutes," I said quietly. "That's all she gets."
Rowan was the last to leave, his hand resting briefly on the doorframe. A silent question. I nodded. He pulled the door closed behind him, but I could see his shadow through the frosted glass. Waiting.
Vivian and I stood on opposite sides of the room, a coffee table and thirty years of damage between us.
"I got a call from Marcus's lawyer an hour ago," she said, voice shaking with rage or fear—I couldn't tell which. "He said you're about to destroy the Grant name. That you're going to stand up there and—" She gestured toward the conference room door. "Tell the world that your father—"
"Tortured me," I finished, and watched her flinch. "Yes. Among other things."
"You can't." It wasn't a command. It was almost a plea. "Lena, think about what this will do. To the family. To Nexus. To—"
"To you?" I set down my statement, faced her fully. "That's what you're really worried about. Not what he did to me. What I'm about to do to your reputation."
"That's not fair—"
"None of this is fair, Mother." The word felt like glass in my mouth. "Do you want to know what else isn't fair? That I was seven years old the first time he beat me so badly I couldn't walk. That you saw the bruises and told the doctors I'd fallen. That you looked the other way for years."
Her face went white. "I didn't—I thought—"
"You thought what?" My voice cracked. "That I deserved it? That it was discipline? That if you ignored it long enough, it would stop?"
"I thought I could control him." The words came out strangled. "I thought if I gave him enough power in the company, enough status, he'd be satisfied. He'd stop needing to—" She couldn't finish.
"He killed Grandfather," I said flatly. "Did you know that?"
The color drained from her face entirely. "What?"
"Marcus murdered your father. Paid off Dr. Williams to forge the death certificate. Made it look like a heart attack." I pulled out my phone, brought up the scanned pages of Williams's confession. "He did it because Grandfather was about to change his will. Cut Marcus out entirely."
Vivian's knees buckled. She caught herself on the arm of the sofa, lowered herself slowly. For the first time in my life, she looked old.
"That's not possible," she whispered. "Marcus loved my father. He—"
"He killed him." I crouched down so we were eye level. "For control of Nexus. For the inheritance. For everything he couldn't get by marrying you."
She stared at the phone screen, at Williams's shaky handwriting confessing to taking $200,000 to lie about cause of death. I watched her world collapse in real time—the careful construct of power and respectability she'd built, all of it rotting from the foundation.
"How long have you known?" she asked finally.
"About Grandfather? A week." I straightened. "About what Marcus did to me? I've always known, Mother. I just learned to stop expecting you to care."
She looked up, and for a moment I saw something that might have been grief. Or recognition. Or the ghost of whoever she'd been before Marcus destroyed her too.
"If you do this," she said slowly, "you'll be alone. The Grant name will be mud. Society will—"
"I don't care." The truth of it settled in my chest, solid as stone. "I've been alone my entire life. At least now I get to choose it."
"Lena—"
"I'm not asking for your permission." I picked up my statement. "I'm not even asking for your support. I'm telling you what's about to happen. You can stay and watch, or you can leave. But I'm walking through that door in three minutes, and nothing you say will stop me."
Vivian stood slowly, smoothed her skirt with shaking hands. For a long moment, she just looked at me. I braced for the usual arsenal—shame, obligation, the weight of family duty.
"He took everything from me," she said quietly. "My father. My company. My—" She stopped. Pressed her lips together. "I should have protected you."
The words hit like a slap. I'd spent thirty years waiting to hear them, and now they felt too late, too small.
"Yes," I said simply. "You should have."
She nodded once. Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.
I stood alone in the greenroom, hands trembling, statement clutched to my chest.
The door opened. Rowan, his expression careful. "It's time."
I nodded. Couldn't quite make my feet move.
"You can still back out," he said gently. "No one would blame you."
"I'd blame me." I forced myself to breathe. "I'm ready."
"Okay." He held out his arm. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just... offering support if I wanted it.
I looped my hand through his elbow.
Together, we walked toward the conference room.