Chapter 43 43
TWO WEEKS LATER – COURTROOM DRAMA
I didn’t attend the first hearing. I didn’t need to.
The law already had enough receipts to line the courthouse steps.
Instead, I stayed at my penthosue, lounging by the pool with fresh fruit and a scented foot mask, watching the livestream on a secure server Darren had arranged.
Let’s just say… popcorn was not enough.
The courtroom was packed. Press and paparazzi buzzed like locusts in expensive suits, all trying to get the best angle of the McLaren Meltdown. The three stars of the show? Venice, MJ, and Era—all seated at the defendant’s table, looking like a failed magazine cover for “How to Ruin Your Inheritance in 10 Days.”
Venice sat stiffly, her once-Instagram-famous curls limp and undone, makeup cakey as though trying to mask the anxiety under blush and highlighter. MJ had tried the “tough athlete” look—black turtleneck, jaw clenched—but the sweat patches betrayed him. Era, in a desperate bid for composure, wore pearls and kept adjusting her glasses as if that would summon back her stolen academic honor.
And across the room—enter Darren. My personal wrecking ball in a three-piece charcoal suit, tailored to death, flanked by two legal assistants and a scowl sharp enough to slice through lies.
He didn’t look at the cameras. He didn’t look at the crowd. He looked at them.
They froze.
The judge barely had to bang her gavel before the courtroom tensed like a coiled spring. Darren stood, clearing his throat, sliding a folder toward the bench like it was a royal decree.
“Your Honor, we’ll begin with the matter of embezzlement,” he said smoothly. “Venice McLaren was entrusted as a junior administrator for the McLaren Fashion internship fund. Said fund was designed to support underprivileged students seeking careers in fashion. The original budget for Q1 was $20. Of that, $17 was misused.”
The crowd murmured. Cameras clicked.
Darren turned toward Venice like he was discussing the weather. “Would you like to explain to the court why receipts show five-star hotel stays in Milan, $2 on a ‘branding retreat’ in Bali, and $1 on influencer coaching sessions hosted by someone named ‘Coach Xylo the Vibe Alchemist’?”
Venice’s lip quivered. “That’s—It was part of outreach. I—I needed to understand the influencer ecosystem.”
“The same ecosystem that involved private chefs and luxury shopping sprees?” Darren deadpanned. “Ma’am, this isn’t a startup pitch. This is fraud.”
Boom.
The prosecution’s witness—an intern Venice had bullied into silence—stood trembling but strong, handing over screenshots of Venice’s Venmo requests and fake ‘expense summaries’ scribbled in crayon-thin logic.
Then came MJ.
The courtroom lights dimmed slightly, as if the universe itself sighed.
“Mr. McLaren,” Darren began, “Your sports charity—‘Athletes Rise Again’—claimed to support young, injured athletes in rehabilitation and mental health recovery. Can you explain why not a single athlete on your donation roster exists?”
MJ swallowed. “I was… advised poorly.”
“Were you advised to reroute charitable donations into a crypto wallet under the alias ‘MJtheMan34’?”
Silence.
“Because we traced $16 to that account. All withdrawn to fund car rentals, luxury watches, and a gold-plated gaming console. Would you call that therapy?”
“I—no—my manager—”
“We are your manager now,” Darren interrupted coolly. “And the only thing you’re rising again is our collective blood pressure.”
Laughter broke from the back of the gallery before the judge barked for order.
Era tried to save face. She wore her “Harvard Hopeful” face, prim and proper with notes printed in perfect margins.
Too bad Darren had the receipts—and the voice recording.
“Your Honor,” he said, “what we’re looking at is not a misstep in judgment, but a full-scale academic fraud ring. Miss Era McLaren submitted three ghostwritten applications, secured a scholarship meant for first-gen scholars, and leveraged a cash bribe to her admission liaison—who, regrettably for her, kept the voicemail.”
He hit play.
“Just make it look clean, okay? My dad already wired the money. I don’t want to pretend to be poor forever.”
Gasps. One of the jurors actually flinched.
Era blinked rapidly, the fake tears failing to arrive on cue.
Darren folded his hands like he was at a brunch. “Any statement, Miss McLaren?”
“I—I was pressured,” she whispered.
“By who? Your own ego?”
The judge raised a brow.
“I withdraw the rhetorical question, Your Honor.”
But the damage was done.
Outside, the media circus erupted into a frenzy.
BREAKING: The McLaren Kids Scandal Explodes in Courtroom Firestorm!
"Venice’s Fashion Fraud Exposed!"
"MJ’s Crypto Crash Course in Crime!"
"Era’s Scholarship Scandal Rocks Academic Circles!"
And still, I didn’t go.
I didn’t need to.
Because Darren wasn’t just defending me—he was undoing them.
Brick by brick, lie by lie, every smug smirk they ever gave me was reduced to courtroom rubble. Every time they told me I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, one of them… was answered by Darren’s cold, articulate fury.
The judge, a stern woman in her sixties with silver hair and a no-nonsense gaze, didn’t even blink when she finally declared:
“Venice McLaren is found guilty of embezzlement. MJ McLaren, guilty of charity fraud and wire manipulation. Era McLaren, guilty of academic fraud and bribery of an official.”
The sentence?
Community service. Restitution. Public apologies. Court-mandated financial oversight. And the permanent stain of disgrace.
They were escorted out with cameras flashing in their faces.
And I?
I turned off the livestream.
Sipped my tea.
And smiled.
Because justice didn’t have to be loud.
Sometimes, it came wearing a suit, wielding evidence, and calling me “darling” after dinner.
Sometimes, justice looked a lot like Darren.
Public Reaction
Headlines ran like wildfire:
📰 “McLaren Heiress Exposed: Embezzlement, Fraud, and Fallout”
📰 “Krystal McLaren’s Silence Says It All”
📰 “Tarnished Legacy: The McLaren Family’s Downfall”
Stock in McLaren-associated brands plummeted. No one wanted to be associated. Influencer contracts terminated. Sponsorships pulled.
Venice was seen storming out of a courthouse in smeared mascara and knockoff heels.
MJ went live on Instagram, sobbing and blaming “cancel culture.”
Era? ERA was spotted in a campus cafeteria, trying to pay for noodles with a gift card that had been deactivated.