Chapter 147
Chapter 147
Hestia frowned slightly.
This wasn't what she'd expected. She'd assumed the Rogers family had been pulling the strings all along.
"However." William's tone shifted, a cold edge surfacing in his eyes. "Claire and Clio have been in close contact. Part of the money Clio used to hire those men was funneled through an offshore shell company under the Rogers family. Claire didn't plan the kidnapping directly, but she's been handing Clio the knife from behind the curtain."
Hestia's fingers tightened around her glass.
That was enough. Claire wanted to orchestrate murder by proxy and keep her own hands clean. The world didn't work that way.
She turned and looked William straight in the eye. In the darkness, her gaze was unwavering—a polished diamond, without a trace of retreat.
"William." Her voice was calm, carrying an authority that brooked no argument.
"I'm here." William held her gaze.
"Help me." Hestia didn't hedge or soften. She laid it out directly. "I want every piece of evidence linking Claire and Clio's financial dealings. I want every skeleton in the Rogers family's closet. I want Claire to understand that the knife she handed out will end up buried in her own heart."
No more playing defense.
She was going on the offensive—ripping out these threats by the root.
William studied her in silence.
He loved the look in her eyes right now. Ambition. Resolve. No hesitation.
This was the real Hestia.
He didn't waver. He didn't ask a single question.
William raised his glass and touched it lightly to hers. Crystal rang against crystal.
Looking at the woman before him—her gaze steel-forged and certain—something surged in his chest. Something close to wonder.
For five years, Hestia had fought alone. She'd buried every wound beneath an impenetrable shell.
She kept everyone at arm's length. And now, she was asking him. Voluntarily.
It meant she was finally willing to lower her guard—to let him inside her walls.
"Done." The faintest trace of a smile surfaced in William's eyes, though his voice left no room for doubt.
Right in front of her, he dialed his assistant.
"Kill the Rogers Group's acquisition project in Phoenixia. The Marshall Group takes over completely." William's voice was granite. "And release everything we have on Claire's overseas activities."
He hung up and turned to Hestia. "By morning, the Rogers family will be the top story everywhere."
Hestia nodded and walked back toward her room. She didn't need the details. She trusted William's methods.
---
The next day, the financial world and the entertainment industry detonated simultaneously.
The Marshall Group struck hard, intercepting the Rogers Group's core acquisition deal—six months in the making—directly on the secondary market.
The Rogers Group's capital chain buckled under instant pressure.
Then, across every major social platform, several high-definition videos dropped out of nowhere.
The star of every clip: Claire Rogers.
On screen, she hosted a wild party aboard a private yacht overseas—barely dressed, draped over multiple male models, with suspicious white powder scattered across the table.
Old-money families lived and died by reputation.
The moment the scandal broke, the Rogers Group's stock price cratered at opening bell.
The Rogers family's senior leadership erupted in fury, convening an emergency board meeting overnight.
Claire's phone wouldn't stop ringing.
She barricaded herself inside a secluded villa owned by the Rogers family, watching the online vitriol and the plummeting stock price, smashing antique vases across the room in a blind rage.
"Bury this story! I don't care what it costs!" Claire screamed hysterically at her PR team.
She was drowning in her own crisis. She had no bandwidth left for anything else.
---
In a run-down apartment on the outskirts of the city, Clio pulled the curtains tight.
She was still injured. Her phone was clenched in a white-knuckled grip.
On the screen: Claire's scandal, trending everywhere.
She tried calling Claire. Nothing but a dead tone.
Clio slid to the floor in despair.
Claire was pinned down. Aaron had thrown her away.
She was a fugitive with nothing to her name, too afraid to step outside. All she could do was hide in the shadows like a sewer rat, not daring to make a single move.
---
Two days later. Downtown ballet studio.
Sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pooling on the hardwood floor.
Hestia wore a black practice leotard, demonstrating choreography for a group of young dancers.
Her posture was flawless, every movement clean and precise.
The studio door opened.
Aaron walked in, leading Gilbert by the hand.
Aaron wore a dark casual suit. The red veins webbing his eyes were impossible to miss.
These past few days had been torture. Hestia's retreating figure haunted his every thought.
He was trying to use the child as leverage—a way back in.
Gilbert wore expensive designer children's clothing, hands shoved in his pockets.
He actually missed Hestia.
These past few days at home, no one tucked him in with Hestia's patience, no one read him stories.
But his pride wouldn't let him show it. He still resented how coldly she'd treated him at the police station.
He wanted Hestia's attention—but he chose the most stubborn way to get it.
Gilbert marched over to the barre and kicked a nearby chair as hard as he could.
Bang. The chair scraped across the floor with an ear-splitting screech.
The music didn't stop.
Hestia didn't even turn around.
She continued correcting a dancer's arch, her voice steady. "Engage your core. Again."
Gilbert clenched his jaw when she ignored him. He walked over and slammed a water bottle onto the table.
Hestia still didn't acknowledge him. She treated the father and son as if they were invisible.
Aaron couldn't stand it any longer. He stepped forward, trying to break the ice.
"Hestia, Gilbert came to see you." Aaron kept his voice low, conciliatory. "He's been throwing tantrums at home all week. He says he misses you."
Hestia stopped mid-movement.
She picked up a towel, dabbed the sweat from her neck, and turned. Her gaze swept over Aaron and Gilbert—cold and flat.
"This is a rehearsal studio, not the Harvey family's playground." Hestia's tone was utterly indifferent. "Leave. Don't waste my time."
Aaron's heart clenched. He took another step. "Hestia, don't be like this. I know you're angry with me, but Gilbert is innocent. He called you 'Mom' for five years."
"Mom?" Hestia let out a cold, humorless laugh.
She looked down at Gilbert.
The boy had his chin tilted up, wearing a deliberate scowl—but behind the bratty mask, his eyes shimmered with expectation. He was waiting for Hestia to come over and coax him, the way she always used to.
She didn't.
"Aaron, you're not just a failure as a father—you're criminally irresponsible." Hestia stared him down, her mockery razor-edged. "You can't handle your own son, so you want to dump him on me? Have you already forgotten what he said at the police station?"
Aaron's expression froze.
"He said it himself—he hates me. He likes Clio." Hestia's voice was ice, every word a blade to the chest. "Since he loves Ms. Webb so much, why are you bringing him to me? Take him to Clio."
Gilbert went rigid.
He'd thought all he had to do was act out, and Hestia would cave.