Chapter 140 Celeste’s Public Falling Out
"Don't do it, Minerva," Tristan said. His voice carried over the noise of the idling engines. "Don't walk into that lobby alone. They will tear you apart."
"I have been alone for three years, Tristan," I replied. I didn't look back as Marcus pulled the car away from the curb. "I am used to the cold."
We drove toward the financial district. I needed to see the carnage for myself. The Johnston Group headquarters was a fortress, but today it looked like a crime scene.
"Diego," I said into my phone. "Where is Celeste?"
"She is at the Whitmore estate," Diego replied. He sounded out of breath. "But she isn't hiding. She is hosting a press conference in twenty minutes. She is going to address the 'betrayal' of her engagement."
"Send a car to the estate," I commanded. "I want to be there."
"Minerva, that is the lion's den," Diego warned. "Thomas Whitmore is already looking for a reason to have you detained."
"He won't touch me while the cameras are rolling," I said. "And I want to see the face of the woman who stood in my place for three years."
The Whitmore estate was a sprawling expanse of perfectly manicured lawns and stone walls. It was a monument to old money and the belief that anything—including a person—could be bought.
As we pulled into the long driveway, I saw the media vans. There were hundreds of them.
I stepped out of the car. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and expensive cologne.
I didn't use the front entrance. I walked around the side of the grand stone patio where the podium had been set up. The reporters were already seated, their cameras aimed at the empty stage.
I stood in the shadows of the tall hedge, watching.
A moment later, Celeste Whitmore stepped out of the French doors.
She looked perfect. She wore a simple, cream-colored silk dress. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a low, elegant knot.
She walked to the podium. She looked down at a small piece of paper.
"Thank you all for coming," Celeste said. Her voice was soft, carrying a practiced tremor. "I am here today to address the shocking revelations regarding Tristan Johnston and his... previous legal obligations."
She paused, lifting her eyes. They were dry.
"I spent three years believing I was building a future with a man of honor," Celeste continued. "I stood by him during the liquidity crisis. I offered my family’s support to save his legacy. I believed his promises."
She reached up, touching the empty space on her ring finger.
"To find out that I was merely a pawn in a game of corporate leverage is a pain I cannot describe," she said. "But the true tragedy is the deception. To be presented as a fiancée while a legal wife was kept in the dark... it is an insult to every woman who believes in the sanctity of commitment."
"I have been humiliated," Celeste whispered. "I have been used as a shield for a man who lacked the courage to be honest. I am ending my engagement to Tristan Johnston immediately. My family will be seeking full legal restitution for the breach of the financing contract."
The reporters began shouting questions.
"Celeste! Did you know about the child?"
"Will your father pursue the custody hearing?"
Celeste leaned into the microphone. "My father is concerned for the child's safety. A child raised in a slum, whose mother is currently under investigation for industrial espionage, is a child at risk. The Whitmore family believes in protecting the Johnston bloodline, even if the Johnstons themselves have failed to do so."
The mask was cracking. The polished heiress was gone, replaced by the predator. She wasn't just ending the engagement; she was helping her father clear the path to take Elias.
I stepped out from behind the hedge.
The movement was subtle, but the cameras caught it. One by one, the lenses turned away from the podium and toward me.
"Minerva Serrano!" one reporter shouted.
Celeste froze. She looked toward me, her eyes widening. The practiced sorrow on her face vanished, replaced by a sharp, naked hatred.
I walked toward the patio. I didn't run. I didn't shout. I walked with the slow, deliberate pace of a woman who had already seen the bottom of the world and was no longer afraid of the fall.
I stopped at the edge of the patio, looking up at her.
"Restitution, Celeste?" I asked. My voice was clear, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. "Is that what you call it when you steal a man’s life and then sue him for the privilege?"
The reporters surged forward, their microphones aimed at the space between us.
Celeste gripped the edges of the podium. "You have no right to be on this property, Minerva. This is a private estate."
"I am a majority shareholder in the Johnston Group," I reminded her. "And as your family is currently attempting to liquidate my assets, I thought I should see where the money was going."
I stepped onto the patio. The security guards moved toward me, but I didn't stop. I looked Celeste in the eye.
"You sat at galas with my husband for three years," I said. "You wore a diamond that was bought with the debt my mother died to protect. You knew he didn't love you. You knew he looked at you and saw a contract, not a partner. And you were happy with that, as long as the cameras were flashing."
"I was his fiancée!" Celeste shrieked. Her poise was gone. Her voice hit a high, ugly note. "I was the one the world saw! You were nothing! You were a girl in a kitchen in Port Sterling!"
"The world saw a lie," I said.
I turned toward the cameras. I looked directly into the lens. I knew Tristan was watching. I knew Harriet was watching from her cell.
"Celeste Whitmore is not a victim," I announced to the city. "She is a business partner who just lost her investment. She didn't care about the 'sanctity of commitment' when she was helping her father orchestrate the smear campaign against me three years ago. She didn't care about the child’s safety when she was pressuring the board to move the wedding date while the child was in the woods."
Celeste lunged forward, her hand raised as if to strike me. The cameras caught the movement—the "perfect" heiress losing her mind on live television.
"Get her off my lawn!" Celeste screamed at the guards. "Get this commoner out of here!"
The guards grabbed my arms. They were rough. They didn't care about the shares; they cared about the orders of the man who signed their paychecks.
"You can take me off the lawn, Celeste," I said as they dragged me back toward the driveway. "But you can't take me out of the registry. And you can't take the fact that for three years, you were just a placeholder for a woman you weren't strong enough to be."