Chapter 170 Destroying The Heiress In Chains
The federal detention center stood on the edge of the city limits, a massive block of gray concrete set against a bruised sky. I stepped out of the car. A bitter wind cut through the fabric of my dark coat. Diego left the engine running, taking up a position by the rear bumper.
I walked through the heavy glass doors alone.
A guard escorted me past the metal detectors and down a long, sterile corridor. The walls smelled of industrial bleach and stale sweat. We stopped at a thick steel door. The guard turned a key, the heavy lock echoing in the quiet hall.
I stepped inside. The interrogation room held a scarred metal table and two bolted chairs. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a harsh, unforgiving glare.
A minute later, the opposite door opened. Two guards brought Celeste Whitmore inside.
She wore a standard gray prison jumpsuit. Her wrists sat locked in thick metal cuffs, a short chain connecting them to a heavy chain around her waist. The pristine blonde hair that used to dominate magazine covers hung in dull, unwashed strands around her face. Her skin lacked its usual glow, revealing sharp, tired lines around her eyes and mouth. The illusion of the untouchable heiress was shattered.
The guards secured her to a metal ring welded to the table. They left the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind them.
I sat in the chair across from her. I placed a manila folder on the metal surface.
Celeste stared at me. Her eyes dragged over my tailored coat, my clean hands, my calm posture. She searched my face for the angry, desperate girl she used to mock in the capital’s ballrooms. She did not find her.
"You look the part," Celeste said. Her voice cracked, dry and unused. "The Johnston Chairman."
"You asked for five minutes, Celeste," I replied. My tone remained level. I did not raise my voice. I pushed the folder across the table. "Sign the plea agreement. Turn over the remaining offshore accounts. The prosecutor will guarantee your transfer to the minimum-security wing."
Celeste looked at the folder. She did not reach for the pen resting beside it.
"Did you come to gloat?" she asked. A spark of the old venom flared in her eyes, a desperate attempt to claw back some power. "Did you come to watch me wear this suit? To see me locked in a concrete box while you sleep in my city?"
"I came because you held the accounts hostage," I stated. "I do not care what you wear."
She let out a harsh, broken laugh. The sound scraped against the metal walls. "Liar. You loved taking it all. You loved tearing my father down in front of the board. You loved taking Tristan from me."
"Tristan was never yours to take," I said. "He was a business transaction. A deal your father orchestrated to save your failing biotech division."
Celeste flinched. The truth hit her like a physical blow.
"I did everything right," Celeste hissed. She leaned forward as far as the chains allowed, the metal rattling against the table. "I played the game perfectly. I smiled at the galas. I managed the charities. I kept my mouth shut when the old men made their deals. I was bred for that life. I earned my place. And you just showed up in a cheap dress and ruined it all."
I looked at her. A month ago, those words would have ignited a fire in my chest. I would have screamed at her. I would have listed every crime she committed against me, every night I spent freezing in Port Sterling, every tear I shed when she spilled that red wine on me to feed the tabloids.
Today, the fire was gone. My chest remained still. I just felt a deep, heavy exhaustion.
"We did not create this game, Celeste," I told her.
She stopped pulling against the cuffs. She frowned, confused by my calm response.
"Alexander Johnston hid my mother in the dark because he wanted to control his wealth," I continued. "Your father traded you like a playing card because he wanted to control his debt. The men in our families built a machine. They expected us to feed it. They expected us to fight each other for the scraps."
I leaned back in the cold metal chair.
"We both wanted to survive the machine," I said. "We just picked different tools."
"You played the victim," Celeste spat.
"I built a company," I corrected her. "I built Aegis from the ground up while I was in hiding. I fought for my son. I fought to clear my mother’s name."
I looked at her chained hands, then back to her tired eyes.
"You looked at the machine, and you decided the only way to survive was to push another woman into the gears," I said. "You saw me. You saw a pregnant girl with nothing. You could have ignored me. You could have walked away. Instead, you paid photographers to humiliate me. You authorized security teams to hunt my child. You chose cruelty. You thought destroying me would make you safe."
Celeste stared at me. The venom in her eyes flickered and died, replaced by a raw, naked panic. She wanted a screaming match. She wanted me to act like a monster so she could feel like a victim. My pity was destroying her remaining defenses.
"I had to protect my family," Celeste whispered, but the words lacked conviction.
"You protected a bank account," I replied. "And now you have nothing. No money. No father. No name."