chapter 98
Elena's POV:
The courthouse steps stretched before me like a gauntlet, each camera flash a small explosion against my retinas.
I kept my chin raised, my hand resting protectively over the swell of my belly where our baby kicked as if sensing the tension.
Sebastian stood beside me, his presence alone creating a buffer zone—the media noticeably more subdued on our side compared to the feeding frenzy surrounding Vivienne.
His silent support was palpable, though a few brave souls still dared to approach, meeting his dangerous gaze before voicing their questions.
"Mrs. Vane, is it true that Madame Flower is your creation?" A reporter thrust a microphone toward my face, her eyes gleaming with the hunger of someone who smelled blood in the water. "Are you using this lawsuit to distract from the murder allegations?"
I paused on the steps, turning to face her with what I hoped was serene confidence. My voice emerged steadier than I felt. "I'm here today to reclaim what was stolen from me. The truth about Madame Flower will speak for itself in court."
"But what about Henry Whitmore?" Another voice cut through the crowd. "How do you respond to claims that you were the last person to see him alive?"
The name hit me like a physical blow, but I'd prepared for this.
"Henry was a kind man who showed me compassion when I had nothing. I would never harm him."
Before another question could pierce the air, Sebastian's arm came around my waist, guiding me forward with gentle but unmistakable authority.
"That's enough," he said quietly, his voice carrying a warning that made the nearest reporters take an instinctive step back.
Marcus and the security team were already creating a path.
I could feel the weight of judgment in their stares, hear the whispers that followed in our wake. Gold digger. Murderer. Calculating bitch.
The venom in their voices carried clearly: She's only here because of Sebastian's power. Because of the Vane family's influence.
Someone muttered just loud enough to be heard, Even Sebastian Vane can't buy her way out of murder. Not when the whole world is watching.
I'd learned not to waste my breath on rebuttals.
These people didn't think—they simply rode whatever wave of public opinion was cresting, eager spectators to drama that wasn't their own.
They weren't worth the energy it would take to correct them, much less the emotional toll of letting their words pierce my carefully constructed armor.
---
Inside the courthouse, the atmosphere was no less charged.
The gallery was packed—this wasn't just a civil case anymore, but a public spectacle.
I recognized faces from the fashion world, beauty influencers with their phones ready despite the court warnings, and journalists with old-fashioned notepads. They'd all come to watch me either triumph or burn.
Vivienne sat at the defendant's table, still in pristine white, wearing the carefully constructed expression of a victim.
Her lawyer—one of the city's most expensive—leaned in to whisper something, and she nodded with confidence.
The judge entered, and we all rose.
My heart hammered against my ribs as the formalities began, each word stretching like taffy in the tense air.
Sebastian's phone buzzed sharply against the wooden table. His expression shifted as he glanced at the screen.
Without a word, he stood. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat, warm through the thin fabric of my blouse, a silent promise that he'd return. Then he pressed the phone to his ear as he strode toward the courtroom doors.
"Your Honor," Vivienne's lawyer began with theatrical gravitas, "my client has built her career on Madame Flower. To claim now, years later, that the formula was stolen is not only legally questionable but morally reprehensible—especially given the timing, when Mrs. Vane faces serious allegations of her own."
Several people in the gallery nodded, and I had to dig my nails into my palms to stay silent.
Our lawyer rose with practiced calm. "The timing, Your Honor, is irrelevant to the facts. Madame Flower was indeed created by my client. Furthermore, I must emphasize that this case should be judged on its own merits. The matter before us today has absolutely nothing to do with any other allegations."
The back-and-forth continued, each side presenting arguments.
When the debate reached a stalemate, the judge intervened. "I believe it's time to hear from the witnesses. Bailiff, please call the first witness."
The courtroom doors opened.
Professor Chen entered like a man walking to his execution, his gait unsteady, his face gray beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
Vivienne's expression transformed instantly—relief flooding her features as she half-rose from her seat.
"Professor Chen," she breathed, loud enough for those nearby to hear. "Thank goodness you're here to tell them the truth."
But Chen didn't look at her. He walked past the defendant's table without acknowledgment.
The judge leaned forward. "Professor Chen, you've come forward as a witness in this case. What do you have to tell the court?"
Chen took his place at the witness stand, his weathered hands gripping the rail.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of years of silence. "Your Honor, Miss Sterling was never present during the development. The formula was entirely Miss Ross's—Mrs. Vane's—creation."
The color drained from Vivienne's face so quickly, I thought she might faint.
Her perfectly manicured nails dug into the table's edge as Chen began his testimony, describing in painful detail the months I'd spent in his laboratory, the countless iterations of the formula, my breakthrough that gave Madame Flower its distinctive character.
"You're lying!" Vivienne shot to her feet, her carefully constructed composure crumbling. "I know Elena found you—what kind of deal did you make with her? What did she promise you? How much did she pay you to turn against me?"
"Miss Sterling!" The judge's gavel cracked like thunder. "Control yourself, or I'll have you removed!"