Chapter 209
Chapter 209
Quinn stood beside her, and the flawless makeup she wore had become the cruelest irony.
Two hours spent on that face. Now, under a dozen phone cameras, every flicker of panic was magnified to its fullest. Nowhere to hide.
But she didn't break.
Quinn's greatest skill had always been finding an angle to fight back, even with her back against the wall.
She hadn't lost her composure when Seraphine bested her at the symposium with that ancient formula. She wouldn't lose it now.
She drew a deep breath, lifted her chin, and in the span of a few seconds her expression shifted from panic to wounded innocence.
Her eyes reddened. Her lips trembled slightly. She spoke to every camera in the voice of someone wrongfully accused, fighting back tears.
"The photos Mr. FitzRoy showed—they're real. Ondine and I did meet at that cafe. And yes, she did say things to me about Seraphine."
She paused, turning her gaze to Ondine. Her eyes carried the heartbreak of someone betrayed by a person she'd trusted.
"But I never agreed to any of it. From start to finish, Ondine was the one talking. I just sat there and listened. She said Seraphine stole her identity, stole her engagement, stole everything she had in the Windsor family."
"She said she hated Seraphine so much she couldn't sleep. She said if I helped her, we could take Seraphine down together. I'll admit—I didn't push back."
"The symposium did sting. Seraphine beat me and I wasn't over it. But no matter how bitter I was, I would never drug someone! I've spent ten years in medicine. I've done over a thousand educational segments. Every award I've ever won was earned on merit. Why would I gamble my entire career on something illegal?"
Her voice grew louder, steadier. Tears welled perfectly at the rims of her eyes but never fell.
She turned to Octavius, her tone sharpening with the indignation of the falsely accused: "Mr. FitzRoy, you're saying I bribed an employee and drugged someone—where's the proof? A few photos of a coffee chat? Do those prove I agreed? Do they prove I paid anyone?"
"If a couple of snapshots of me having coffee with someone are enough to convict me, then no one in this world is safe grabbing a latte with a friend."
"And those surveillance screenshots—Ondine handing an envelope to an employee. How does that prove I ordered it? She's the one who contacted him. Start to finish. What does any of that have to do with me?"
Several reporters exchanged glances. One murmured, "She kind of has a point."
The livestream comments began to fracture.
[Quinn's argument isn't totally wrong...]
[It really is just photos of them having coffee.]
[But how do you explain Ondine handing that envelope to the employee?]
[Was this really all Ondine acting alone?]
---
The moment Ondine heard Quinn dumping every ounce of blame onto her, her expression shifted—from panic to disbelief, from disbelief to fury.
She'd arranged the media contacts for Quinn. She'd secured backstage access. She'd paved every inch of the path inside this speedway. And now that things had gone south, this woman turned on her without blinking?
Her lips trembled with rage. But she didn't explode. Those months locked in the hillside villa, that moment kneeling at the recognition banquet—she knew too well what losing control in front of cameras would cost.
She adjusted her expression fast, countering in an equally wounded tone.
"Quinn, that's not fair. At the cafe that day, you were the one who brought up getting back at Seraphine first. You said Alvin took her as his apprentice but not you. You said the reputation you spent ten years building got crushed by one competition."
"You said you'd been wanting to 'return the favor'—were those my words? Did I force you to say them? Fine, I'll admit I gave that employee the cash. But you told me to. You said you couldn't be seen handling logistics with media around, so you sent me to take care of it."
"I was just running errands for you. You planned the whole thing from the beginning. And now you're calling me the mastermind? Why would I want to hurt my own sister?"
"We have our issues, sure—but no matter how much I resent her, I'm still a Windsor. Why would I do something like this right under the Windsor family's nose? I'd be destroying my own house!"
Their accusations escalated, voices climbing over each other. Quinn said Ondine exploited her jealousy to lure her in. Ondine said Quinn masterminded the whole scheme and used her as a pawn.
The reporters' cameras bounced between them, unsure where to point.
The comments section erupted into chaos.
[This is better than a TV drama.]
[Who's actually telling the truth?]
[Honestly? They both look guilty to me.]
---
Octavius stood in the lounge doorway, watching the two women tear each other apart in front of him. His face showed nothing.
This was exactly what he'd been waiting for—let them finish spinning their lies, let them seal off every escape route themselves. Then he'd deliver the final blow.
He tilted his head slightly. Ethan, stationed at the corridor corner, stepped forward immediately, a black folder in his hand. Inside was evidence far more lethal than a few photographs.
Octavius drew out the first document—a signed, thumbprinted witness statement bearing the catering worker's own handwriting.
"Yale Trevor. Temporary employee, venue catering department. Contacted through an intermediary three days ago. This statement makes it very clear: the person who reached out identified herself as a Sullivan. She offered twenty thousand dollars to spike Seraphine's tea on race day."
"The drug was supplied by the woman surnamed Sullivan. The cash was paid on the spot by the woman surnamed Windsor."
He held the original statement up to the cameras, letting everyone see the bright red thumbprint and the uneven signature.
"Ms. Sullivan—you just said you didn't pay anyone and didn't direct anyone to do anything. Then perhaps you can explain why this employee's testimony mentions your name from beginning to end?"
The color in Quinn's face drained from wounded innocence to ash gray in a single heartbeat.
Her mouth opened to protest, but Octavius gave her no chance.
He drew out the second document—a bank transaction screenshot showing clearly that two days before the race, a sizable sum had been transferred from Quinn's personal account to a pharmaceutical supplier.
The memo line read: 'Herbal materials.'
He held the screenshot up to the cameras, eyes locked on Quinn's, his tone flat and devastating: "You said you've spent ten years in the medical field. Then you should know perfectly well that this supplier's business license doesn't cover any legitimate pharmaceuticals."
"He deals exclusively in controlled substances. You—a decorated medical professional of ten years—why would you be wiring money to a dealer in controlled drugs? The memo says 'herbal materials.' Care to tell everyone exactly what you purchased?"
Quinn's body swayed.