Chapter 139 Parasites in High Heels
I stared at him. He looked so polished. So reasonable. This was the same man who had voted to authorize the "internal audit" of my mother’s background three years ago, hoping to find a scandal that would ruin me.
"A misunderstanding," I repeated. I felt the cold anger rising in my throat. "Is that what you call it? When my mother died in a public clinic because your company blacklisted her? When my son was born in a charity ward because your chairman suppressed my marriage? Was that a misunderstanding?"
Benedict’s smile faltered. "We were not aware of the details, Minerva. We were following Harriet’s lead."
"You were following the money," I corrected him. "And now the money is with me. You don't want to embrace my legacy, Benedict. You want to survive it. You want to make sure I don't fire you for being a coward."
"I am offering you the crown of the Johnston Group," he said, his voice sharpening. "Don't let your emotions cloud your judgment. You need the board's support to stabilize Aegis."
"I don't need your support," I said, standing up. "Aegis is mine. The Johnston shares are mine. I didn't come back to this city to be your 'interim' anything. I came back to finish what Alexander started."
I walked toward the door, but his next words stopped me.
"Thomas Whitmore is not Harriet," Benedict warned. "He is still out there. He has already filed for a custody hearing. He is going to claim that a 'traumatized' woman with a 'fraudulent' business background is unfit to raise a Johnston heir. He is going to use your time in Port Sterling against you."
I turned around. My heart was pounding, but my face was a mask. "He can try."
"He will succeed if you are alone," Benedict said. "The city loves a story of a secret wife, but they love a story of a fallen mother even more. If you want to keep that boy, you need a respectable front. You need the board. You need Tristan."
I walked out of the room without answering.
I took the elevator back to the lobby. As the doors opened, I saw the sea of people. The socialites, the photographers, the opportunists. They moved toward me like a wave.
"Minerva! A comment for the evening edition!"
"Minerva, are you attending the Whitmore deposition?"
I pushed through them, my security team creating a path. I reached the glass doors and stepped out into the humid morning air.
Tristan’s car was parked directly in front of the entrance. He saw me and stepped out. He looked exhausted, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes sunken. He looked like the man I had loved in that secret apartment, before the contracts and the lies.
But then I saw the tablet in his hand. He was checking the stock prices. He was looking at the data.
Even now, he was calculating.
I walked past him toward my own car.
"Minerva," he called out. He didn't follow me. He stood by his door, looking at me across the gap. "I got the court documents. Thomas filed the custody motion ten minutes ago. He is targeting your mental health from the last three years."
I stopped. I didn't turn around.
"I have the medical records from the Port Sterling clinic," Tristan continued, his voice trembling. "They show you were treated for malnutrition during the second trimester. They show you were alone. Thomas is going to use that to say you were negligent. He is going to say the Serrano legacy is one of instability."
I felt the ground disappear. The cold nights when I had shared my bread with a neighbor's child because I couldn't bear to see them cry. I had done it to survive, but in the hands of a billionaire lawyer, it would look like a crime.
"I can block the records," Tristan said. "I can say I was providing for you through a secret trust. I can provide the receipts. I can make you the perfect mother in the eyes of the court."
"By telling more lies?" I asked, finally turning to face him.
"By winning," Tristan said. "We have to win, Minerva. Or they take him."
I looked at the man who had protected me by destroying me. I looked at the crowd of socialites watching us from the hotel steps, their phones out, recording every second of our "reunion."
Then my phone buzzed. A message from Diego.
The medical records were just leaked to the tabloids. The headline is already live.
I looked at the screen.
THE HUNGRY HEIR: WAS THE JOHNSTON BABY NEGLECTED IN THE SLUMS?
I turned my head. Tristan stood by his car, his hand white-knuckled on the door frame. He looked at me, his eyes begging me to let him play the protector one more time.