Chapter 138 Society Flips the Script
I looked at the notifications on my phone. They came in waves. My inbox was a graveyard of apologies from people who hadn't spoken to me in years.
"Beatrice Langford just sent a handwritten note to the lobby," Diego said, walking into the living area of the suite. He held a thick ivory envelope. "She says she always suspected Harriet was hiding something. She wants to invite you to the spring foundation gala as her guest of honor."
I let out a dry laugh. Beatrice Langford was the same woman who had turned her back on me at the charity auction three months ago. She had whispered "gold-digger" loud enough for the entire front row to hear.
"She doesn't suspect anything, Diego. She just checked the federal registry and saw my twenty percent stake," I said. I stood up, my joints feeling stiff. "She is a weather vane. She points whichever way the money blows."
"It is not just her," Diego noted. He opened his laptop, showing me the social media feeds. "The same influencers who shared those leaked photos of your apartment three years ago are now posting long threads about 'standing with Minerva.' They are calling your struggle an inspiration."
I walked over to the window. Below, the street was still crowded with reporters, but the mood had shifted.
"Florence Carrington just released a statement," Diego continued. "She says she is 'horrified' by the way the Whitmores manipulated the media. She is offering to double our shelf space in her boutiques as a gesture of 'solidarity.'"
"Solidarity," I whispered. I leaned my forehead against the cool glass. "Three years ago, I walked into Florence’s office begging for a small distribution contract. She didn't even look up from her desk. She told her assistant to call security because she didn't want the 'smell of the slums' in her building."
"Now she wants to be your best friend," Diego said. "The elites are rewriting history, Minerva. They are pretending they were on your side all along. They are terrified that if they don't, you will use your voting block to strip them of their Johnston contracts."
I watched a black town car pull up to the hotel entrance. A woman stepped out, shielded by four bodyguards. It was Daniela Cabrera, a socialite who had once compared my presence at a gala to a "stain on the carpet." She was carrying a massive bouquet of white lilies.
"Tell the lobby I am not accepting visitors," I said. "And tell them to throw the lilies in the trash. White lilies are for funerals. My mother’s funeral was three years ago. I don't need them now."
I felt a hollow ache in my chest. The public validation should have felt like a victory.
Their respect was not for me. It was for the pieces of paper Alexander Johnston had hidden. If I lost those shares tomorrow, Beatrice Langford would go back to whispering in the front row, and Florence Carrington would call security again.
I walked into the small kitchenette and poured a glass of water. My hand was steady, but my mind was a storm.
"Tristan is downstairs," Diego mentioned softly. "He has been in his car since five in the morning. He hasn't asked to come up. He is just... waiting."
"Let him wait," I said.
I thought about the note my mother had left in the margin of the marriage certificate. She had been watching Tristan since the day he arrived. She knew why he was there. She knew he was a Johnston before I did.
Did she leave the note as a warning, or as a confirmation? Did she want me to know that my husband was a guardian, or did she want me to know he was a guard?
The phone on the hotel nightstand rang. It was the internal line.
"Miss Serrano," the concierge said, his voice trembling with a level of deference that made my skin crawl. "A representative from the Johnston Board of Directors is here. Mr. Benedict Holloway. He says it is urgent."
I looked at Diego. Benedict Holloway was one of the younger board members—the leader of the Opportunists.
"Send him to the private meeting room on the fourth floor," I instructed. "I will be down in ten minutes."
When I entered the meeting room, Benedict Holloway stood up immediately. He didn't offer a handshake. He bowed his head slightly.
"Minerva," he said. He tried to sound familiar, as if we were old colleagues. "It is a relief to see you safe. The events at the boardroom last night were... barbaric. Harriet has lost her way."
"Harriet is in a cell, Benedict," I said, sitting across from him. "Get to the point."
"The point is stability," he said, leaning forward. "The market is volatile. The board is ready to pivot. We want to offer you the interim chairmanship. We want to embrace the Serrano legacy. We can issue a formal apology on behalf of the conglomerate for the 'misunderstandings' of the past three years."