chapter 93
Elena's POV:
The morning sunlight streaming through the curtains fell across my face, coaxing me from sleep.
I opened my eyes groggily, blinking against the brightness as consciousness slowly returned.
My hand instinctively reached across the bed, finding Sebastian's side empty but still warm to the touch. He hadn't been gone long.
I pushed myself up, and that's when I heard it—Sebastian's voice drifting in from the balcony, the glass doors doing little to muffle his sharp, clipped tone as he spoke into his phone.
"—absolutely unacceptable... trending for how long?... Get it removed immediately—"
My name floated through the air, followed by words that made my blood run cold: "anonymous post," "defamation," "legal action."
A familiar dread settled in my stomach.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, and my heart sank at the sight.
The screen was dark with notifications—dozens of missed calls, hundreds of unread messages, all accumulated while the device sat on silent mode.
Sebastian must have muted it last night, not wanting me to be disturbed after such an eventful day.
My fingers trembled slightly as I unlocked the screen. The sheer volume of activity was overwhelming, but one name jumped out from the chaos of notifications: Isabella Morrison.
I hadn't heard from Isabella since she'd left abroad, so I couldn't resist clicking on her messages. They'd been sent late last night and early this morning:
"Elena! I'm back from Paris! Just saw the news about you becoming Onyx—I can't believe I missed all this while I was gone. You've become quite the sensation in the perfume world! Congratulations, darling!"
Then, hours later:
"Just woke up and saw what's trending. Don't pay attention to those online comments—you know what they say, fame always brings its share of drama. The taller the tree, the harder the wind blows. Don’t let those vultures succeed."
My chest tightened. What vultures? What was happening online?
With growing trepidation, I opened my browser and went straight to the trending topics. The blood drained from my face as I saw it sitting at number one:
#ElenaRossMurderer
The absurdity of it hit me like a physical blow. Murder? The accusation was so far beyond anything I'd expected that for a moment, I simply stared at the screen in disbelief.
I clicked through to the source—an anonymous post that had gone viral overnight. As I read, my shock morphed into something colder, sharper.
The poster claimed to be mourning a beloved family butler who had died under mysterious circumstances nearly two years ago.
According to this anonymous storyteller, the butler who had raised him since childhood—who had provided meticulous care even during his period of blindness—had died mysteriously on the very first day his sight returned.
One servant at the estate claimed Elena had visited, and after that day, she'd never appeared again.
The poster painted a picture of a devoted, grandfatherly figure whose decades of loyal service had ended in tragedy, with me as the prime suspect who'd conveniently vanished without a trace.
The comments section was a battlefield.
Amateur detectives dissected every word, spinning increasingly wild theories about motives and methods. A few brave souls pointed out the obvious—that this was clearly a targeted attack, that the story had more holes than Swiss cheese, that someone successful and newly in the spotlight always attracted this kind of malicious attention.
But their rational voices were drowned in the tide of those who simply wanted drama, scandal, something to make their morning coffee more interesting.
They didn't care about truth; they cared about entertainment.
"That's what she gets for being so high-profile lately. Flying too close to the sun."
"She was all over social media yesterday with that Maison Lucent deal, and now this? Karma works fast."
"Just goes to show—you can know someone's face but never their heart. Who would've thought sweet little Onyx was capable of this?"
"Hope karma catches up with her and that baby she's carrying."
"Murderers shouldn't be allowed to have children."
"Why hasn't she responded? Guilty conscience much?"
I scrolled through comment after comment, each one more vicious than the last. My hand pressed protectively against my stomach as I read the vile words directed not just at me, but at my innocent, unborn baby.
But even through my shock and anger, the details in the post gave me enough information to identify the author—Lucas. And the kind old butler he described? He was real.
My chest tightened as I remembered Henry, the gentle soul who had once found me lingering outside the Ashton estate, hungry and exhausted.
Without hesitation, he'd led me into the kitchen and insisted I eat a proper meal. His weathered hands had trembled slightly as he'd served me soup, his eyes crinkling with grandfatherly concern.
When I'd heard of his passing, I'd been devastated. Despite everything that had happened, I'd attended Henry's funeral, staying at the back of the crowd where I wouldn't be noticed.
I'd never forget the warmth that kind old man had shown me during those difficult months.
How could anyone believe I would harm him? The very thought made me sick.
And knowing that Lucas was behind this post made my blood boil with rage.
I thought back to our tense encounters, to the way he'd looked at me with barely concealed hostility. I'd believed that despite everything—despite his engagement to Vivienne—we'd maintained some thread of civility from those months when I'd cared for him during his recovery.
Apparently, I'd been naive.
He'd do anything for Vivienne. Even this.
I set my phone aside and took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. One hand braced against my lower back as I adjusted to the shift in weight. The baby kicked firmly, as if in agreement with my newfound resolve.
If Lucas Ashton wanted a war, then I'd give him one.
The bedroom door opened, and Sebastian appeared, his phone still pressed to his ear. His eyes found mine immediately, scanning my face with intense concern.
"I'll call you back," he said curtly into the phone, ending the call without waiting for a response.
In three strides, he was beside me, his hands gentle on my shoulders despite the tension radiating from every line of his body.
"How much did you see?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled.