The heavy hush that followed Lottie's revelation hung in the air like a held breath, thick with disbelief and the slow, creeping edge of panic. Evelyn's fingers hovered midair, still trembling from the shattered champagne flute at her feet. Shards glittered on the marble like a thousand tiny betrayals, sharp and glinting beneath the chandelier's cold light.
For a moment, she couldn't move. Her pulse slammed in her ears, drowning out the rising whispers of the crowd. Faces blurred at the edges, mouths moving in slow motion, gasps swelling like a tide against her skin. She dug her nails into her palm, the sting a desperate tether to reality, and forced her lips into a brittle, brittle smile.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Evelyn began, voice thin, reedy, "surely… we can all agree there's been a misunderstanding."
But her words hit the room like a stone dropped into deep water—no ripple, no response, just a dead, hollow silence. Robert's eyes locked on her from across the hall, sharp as a blade under drawn brows. His fingers flexed once on the armrest, the only sign of tension in his otherwise still frame.
Lottie's voice cut through the air again, calm, measured, devastating. "The documents will be made available to all stakeholders this evening. We believe in transparency." Her gaze slid deliberately toward Evelyn, the faintest curve of her mouth an echo of something almost kind—almost.
Mason moved like a shadow at her side, murmuring softly into the earpiece. "Press is pushing in. Leo's got the livestream pinned across every major channel. Evelyn's team looks scattered—half of them just left the room."
At the edge of the crowd, Amy's breath stuttered in her throat. Her hands were cold around her phone, heart hammering as she watched the perfect façade she'd once admired fracture, splinter, collapse. She flinched as cameras swept closer, their sharp clicks punctuating the silence like gunfire. The din of the room pressed in on her, a suffocating swell of voices, and she had to grip the edge of a nearby table to steady herself.
On the far side, Evelyn's PR team lurched into motion. Two aides scrambled toward her, faces pale and tight, whispering furiously into her ear. Evelyn's eyes darted between them, the words ricocheting off her panic-flooded mind. "Spin it," she hissed, voice breaking on the edge of a laugh that tasted of bile. "Get ahead of it. Tell them—tell them it's sabotage."
But they were already pulling back, eyes skittering away, mouths pressed into tight lines. She saw it in the slump of their shoulders, the way their gazes flicked to Lottie with something too close to calculation. Cold spread outward from her chest, freezing her breath in her throat. The room tilted. She blinked hard, reaching out blindly, and found nothing.
Lottie's voice flowed on, steady and soft as a blade slipping between ribs. "These aren't easy truths, I know. But we owe it to this family, to this legacy, to face them."
Evelyn's heart seized. Legacy. Her father's word. His eyes hadn't left her—those pale, cold eyes, stripped of the affection she'd spent a lifetime bending herself to earn. She wanted to speak, to run, to scream, to fold herself small enough to disappear. But her knees refused to lock, her throat refused to open, and her mind careened wildly, crashing against every memory she'd ever curated to keep herself safe.
Robert rose slowly, his chair scraping softly against the floor, the sound slicing through the tension with surgical precision. The crowd parted for him like a tide. His face was carved from stone, lined by disappointment so profound it hollowed out his features. He moved toward Evelyn with measured steps, each one a drumbeat in her cracking world.
"We need to talk," he said, voice low, carrying just enough weight to send a fresh shiver through the room.
For the first time in her life, Evelyn's mouth emptied of words. She stared, eyes wide, skin cold and too tight across her cheekbones. Her lips trembled around a soundless protest, and then—without thinking—she dipped into a graceful curtsey, absurdly polished, a desperate relic of control. The motion pulled a brittle laugh from the crowd, sharp as a slap, a ripple of cruel surprise.
Lottie's fingers flexed once on the edge of the podium. Mason's hand hovered near her elbow, a subtle anchor. She let out a slow, quiet breath, the air slipping cool across her tongue. Leo's voice crackled softly in her ear, laced with triumph. "We've got the press feed. Evelyn's trending worldwide. Adrian's watching."
At the fringe of the room, Amy pressed a fist to her mouth, chest tight, heart roaring in her ears. She saw Evelyn sway, saw the rigid twist of her fingers at her side, saw the faint, almost imperceptible tremor work its way up her arms. The image scorched itself into Amy's mind—Evelyn Hayes, queen of composure, unmasked and unmade under the weight of her own deception.
Reporters surged forward, a murmuring tide of questions and flashes, voices rising in a hungry crescendo. Evelyn flinched back, her spine stiffening, but it was too late—the wave had broken, and she was its unwilling centerpiece.
Robert's voice slid through the clamor like a knife through silk. "Now, Evelyn."
She jolted, a harsh, shuddering breath wrenching free of her throat. With stiff, mechanical grace, she stepped over the glittering wreckage of the champagne flute, the soft crunch of crystal beneath her heel a sound she would hear in her dreams for years. As she moved past Lottie, her gaze snagged briefly on her sister's face—on the softness at the edges of Lottie's cool triumph, the flicker of something fragile and aching beneath the steel.
For a heartbeat, Evelyn's chest clenched around something that almost felt like grief. Her lips parted, just slightly, a half-formed word trembling on the edge of breath. But it never crossed her tongue.
She tore her eyes away.
Her father's grip closed around her elbow—not harsh, not cruel, but firm, final. She stiffened, a tiny jerk of her shoulders, but she didn't pull away. The sensation of his hand, the weight of his disappointment, cut deeper than anything Lottie could have wielded. Evelyn's knees wanted to buckle, her vision wanted to tunnel, but she forced herself upright, spine rigid, jaw locked. The smooth glide of silk against her skin felt suddenly suffocating, the weight of diamonds at her throat a choke chain.
Behind them, the hall roared with questions, with rising voices, with the sharp stutter of cameras capturing every angle of her unraveling.
Lottie remained at the podium, fingers curling around its edge, knuckles pale as bone. Mason murmured something close to her ear, a faint line of reassurance threading through the storm. For a moment, just a moment, her shoulders sagged—shoulders that had borne the weight of this night, the weight of family and war and truth sharpened into a blade. Her eyes softened, flickering after Evelyn's retreating form, something hollow and pained glimmering at the edge of victory.
Amy hovered near the back, her phone half-raised, frozen. Her breath fogged faintly in front of her face, though the room was too warm, her chest tight as a drumhead. She watched the last shreds of Evelyn's composure peel away, saw the raw edge beneath the diamond-polished mask, and for a beat she hated herself for the pulse of sympathy that rose, sharp and sour, in her throat.
Evelyn crossed the marble expanse, each step a silent scream in her bones. The press surged forward, and for the first time, she didn't know which mask to wear, which smile to summon, which lie to cradle in her teeth. Her skin felt paper-thin, her heartbeat a hollow drumbeat in her ears.
Robert moved with brutal precision, his fingers tightening slightly on her arm as they reached the side door. His mouth dipped toward her ear, his breath cool, his voice a low murmur meant for no one else. "You're coming with me. No scenes."
Her breath hitched. The words scraped along her spine like a blade, severing the last fragile thread of control. But she nodded, once, shallowly, her chin barely moving.
Behind them, the clock in the hallway chimed, sharp and clear. Each strike echoed across the marble, a metronome counting down the collapse. Lottie's fingers twitched on the folder, her chest rising in a slow, trembling inhale. Mason shifted subtly closer, his warmth a quiet, anchoring weight beside her.
And across the room, Evelyn allowed herself one last glance over her shoulder. Her gaze skimmed past the cameras, past the flashbulbs and hungry eyes, and locked—just for a breath, just for a heartbeat—on Lottie.
For a moment, there was no war, no triumph, no collapse.
For a moment, they were only two women standing on opposite sides of a shattering world.
Then Robert's hand urged her forward, and Evelyn's eyes slid away.