Chapter 207

Chapter 207

Elizabeth's POV

Hundreds of heads turned toward the stage.

Hundreds of eyes locked on Alexander, on me, on our hands clasped together.

Alexander rose from his seat, adjusted his collar, and walked to the stage. He didn't take the microphone. He stopped in front of Gray and looked straight at him. "Grandpa, today's your big day. I want to give you a gift."

Gray froze for a second. "What gift?"

Alexander pulled a flash drive from his pocket and handed it to the emcee. "Play it."

The emcee glanced at Gray, and Gray gave a slow nod. The drive was plugged into the computer, and the big screen lit up.

Franklin's voice came through the speakers, recorded that day in the main hall at Windsor Estate. "It was me. I arranged it."

The ballroom went dead silent.

Everyone stared at the screen, though there was nothing to see. Just audio.

No video. No subtitles. Only Franklin's voice, captured in the stillness of that afternoon in Windsor Estate's grand hall, admitting it with his own mouth.

"Your father was the eldest son, the heir to the Windsor Family. I was smarter than him, more capable than him, more suited to that seat than he ever was. But because I was the second son, I was supposed to step aside, bow my head, and spend my whole life living in his shadow. I wouldn't accept that."

The recording kept playing.

"So you killed him?"

"It was me. I arranged it."

Someone in the crowd sucked in a sharp breath. Someone else clapped a hand over their mouth. Franklin stood on the stage, and the smile had vanished completely from his face.

His lips trembled. His eyes were fixed on the screen as if he were staring at something that had no right to be there.

Gray gripped the table, his body swaying.

His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, but no sound came out.

The recording ended.

The ballroom was as silent as a graveyard.

Alexander took the microphone and faced the hundreds of guests below. His voice wasn't loud, but every word landed clean and clear. "Fifteen years ago, my parents died in a car crash. It wasn't an accident. It was murder. And the killer was my uncle, Franklin. He admitted it himself."

The room exploded.

People shot to their feet. Someone screamed. Some stumbled backward while others pushed forward.

Hundreds of people. Hundreds of expressions. But every eye in the room landed on one man.

He stood on the stage, pale as paper, his lips shaking, unable to force out a single word.

"Security!" Gray finally managed to choke out. "Cut the mic! Shut off the screen!"

No one moved.

Because Alexander had already replaced the ballroom security team. Every guard in the room was his.

"Alexander!" Gray's voice cracked into a near shout. "Are you trying to destroy the Windsor Family?"

Alexander turned and looked at his grandfather.

"Fifteen years ago, Franklin destroyed my family." His voice was quiet, almost too quiet, like he was speaking about something buried deep in the past. "I'm only letting him find out what it feels like when a family is destroyed."

Gray collapsed back into his chair, one hand clutching his chest. People rushed to him at once. Someone yelled for a doctor. Someone shoved a glass of water into his hand. Someone fanned him with a napkin.

Chaos broke open in every direction.

And in the center of it, Franklin stood perfectly still.

His eyes stayed on Alexander, and there was something in them I couldn't quite read. It wasn't anger. It wasn't hatred. It was something stranger than that, something almost like admiration.

"Alexander." Franklin's voice was so hoarse it barely carried. "You win."

Alexander said nothing.

Then someone in the crowd rose to his feet.

Stanley.

He had a camera in his hands, the lens trained on Franklin on the stage. The click of the shutter was almost impossible to hear in the noise, but I knew what he was doing.

He was capturing it.

Recording every second.

He would write it all down. He would make sure more people knew.

The chaos in the ballroom dragged on.

Gray was helped into a private lounge off to the side. Franklin was surrounded by members of The Windsor Family, like guards circling their king.

But that king wasn't a king anymore.

I stayed in my chair at the head table and didn't move. Alexander stood beside me, still holding my hand.

His grip was as steady as ever. Not even the slightest tremor.

It was over.

Not all of it, but this part was. Franklin's true face had been exposed in front of everyone. Gray could never cover for him again. The people in The Windsor Family could never pretend they didn't know.

All the applause, all the tears, all the 'welcome back' sentiments—they had turned into a joke.

The ballroom was still in turmoil.

Some people were crying. Some were shouting. Some slipped out quietly. Others crowded around Gray in a flurry of panic.

The carefully arranged flowers and red drapery, the balloons and decorations marked with the number eighty, all of it looked absurd now.

This should have been a day for an old man to receive blessings on his eightieth birthday.

Instead, it had become a public trial for a murderer.

Franklin was escorted toward a side exit by several people.

His steps faltered once or twice, but his spine stayed straight.

When he reached the door, he stopped.

Then he turned back, his gaze cutting across the crowd until it found Alexander.

That look was complicated. There was bitterness in it, and anger, and something harder to name, as if he were looking at an opponent he had unknowingly forged with his own hands and was only now seeing fully formed.

"Alexander." His voice wasn't loud, but somehow it cut through the noise of the ballroom. "You're like your father. But you're crueler."

Alexander looked at him and didn't answer.

Franklin smiled.

It was brief, so brief it almost felt imagined. Then he turned and walked out.

The door shut behind him, cutting off the weight of every stare and every voice.

Where would he go?

Would he turn himself in, or disappear somewhere no one could find him?

I didn't know.

But I noticed several men in plain clothes stationed by the door, and the second Franklin stepped out, they followed.

Alexander had already planned for this.

Whether Franklin wanted to run or hide, he wouldn't get far.

After Gray was taken into the lounge, the ballroom slowly began to empty.

Guests left in twos and threes. Some wore grim expressions. Some leaned close, whispering to each other. Some were already on their phones as they walked, their voices low and urgent.

The untouched dishes, the unopened bottles of wine, the birthday cake that had never been cut sat abandoned on the tables, like props from a performance that had been shut down mid-show.

I remained at the head table, watching all of it. The tea beside my hand had long gone cold, and I never reached for it.

Alexander stood next to me, one hand resting on the back of my chair, the other in his pocket.

His face was calm, so calm he looked like a man watching a scene that had nothing to do with him.

But I noticed the way he was breathing.

Slower than usual.

Controlled.

Like he was holding everything down by force.

"Alexander," I said.

He looked down at me.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay."

A lie.

But I didn't call him on it.

Some things didn't need to be said out loud. Some feelings didn't need to be named.

If he didn't want to talk, I wouldn't push.

I only needed to stay here.

That was enough.