Chapter 3 - THE WHISPERS OF THE THREE HUNDRED GUESTS
The murmurs of the three hundred guests grew louder,
like the hum of a disturbed beehive,
filling the vast space of the ballroom.
I could feel their judgmental eyes on me,
evaluating my reaction,
searching for any sign of weakness or impending breakdown.
Some looked at me with pity,
while others wore expressions of sheer,
unfiltered amusement at my public humiliation.
Grant stood beside Celeste,
his chest puffed out,
basking in the silent controversy he had so deliberately created.
He believed he had backed me into a corner,
forcing me to either accept his mistress's child or look like a heartless monster.
But he had severely underestimated the strength my mother had passed down to me,
and the power of the documents in Mr.
Vance's hands.
I took a slow,
steady step forward,
the heavy fabric of my gown whispering against the polished hardwood floor.
The crowd fell silent once more,
holding their collective breath as I approached the stage where the new portrait hung.
I did not look at Celeste,
nor did I look at the glittering emeralds she wore,
though the sight of them burned my soul.
I kept my eyes fixed entirely on my husband,
forcing him to meet my gaze under the bright lights of the chandelier.
"Where is Sophie and Noah's portrait?"
I asked,
my voice calm,
clear,
and perfectly steady,
carrying easily across the silent room.
Grant’s handsome jaw tightened,
a subtle flicker of annoyance crossing his eyes at my lack of tears.
"It was relocated,"
he said shortly,
his tone clipped and defensive,
trying to dismiss my question as unimportant.
Celeste’s triumphant smile widened,
and she stepped forward,
eager to twist the knife a little deeper into my chest.
"The staff placed it in storage,"
she said,
her voice dripping with a sweet,
poisonous condescension that made my blood run cold.
"There simply wasn't enough room for all three children in the central position,"
she added,
as if she were merely discussing home decor.
I looked past her at the massive portrait wall,
which stretched twenty-eight feet across the grand ballroom.
"The wall is twenty-eight feet long,"
I said,
my voice cutting through her sweet tones like a razor blade through silk.
"There is more than enough room for forty portraits on this wall,
Celeste."
Sophie stepped up beside me,
her young face pale but determined,
her eyes shining with a fierce,
newborn anger.
She looked directly at her father,
ignoring the mistress who stood so close to him.
"You took ours down?"
she asked,
her voice trembling with a deep,
unforgivable betrayal.
Grant snapped his head toward her,
his expression hardening as he tried to exert his fading parental authority.
"This isn't the time,
Sophie,"
he barked,
his voice sharp and cold,
revealing the cruel man behind the polished mask.
"You picked the time,"
Sophie replied instantly,
her words echoing through the silent room with the force of a physical blow.
The entire ballroom went painfully,
breathlessly still,
the guests shocked by the young girl’s quiet defiance.
Instead of comforting his grieving daughter,
Grant reached out and gently touched Celeste's bare back,
comforting his mistress instead.
In that very moment,
something in Sophie's face closed forever,
the last lingering trace of love for her father dying in her eyes.
Celeste leaned slightly toward me,
the Beaumont emeralds flashing brilliantly at her throat,
her eyes dancing with malicious joy.
"This family has been trapped in the past for far too many years,"
she murmured,
her voice low but audible to those standing near.
"Grant wants a vibrant future,
and Julian and I are the center of that future,"
she declared,
marking her territory.
I did not answer her,
choosing instead to look past her toward the edge of the ballroom,
where my legal team waited.
Margaret Shaw,
my sharp-eyed trust attorney,
nodded slowly,
her fingers tapping against her leather briefcase.
Beside her,
Mr.
Vance,
the quiet forensic accountant,
unzipped his leather bag and pulled out the thick,
sealed grey folder.
The chairman of Grant’s own board,
Richard Sterling,
stood nearby,
checking his gold watch with a look of deep,
growing concern.
Grant followed my gaze,
and for the very first time that night,
his absolute confidence began to visibly flicker.
He had thought I spent the last three weeks weeping in my bedroom,
paralyzed by the grief of losing my mother.
He had no idea that I had spent every single hour of those weeks working with investigators,
digging into the dark corners of his life.
He did not know that the magnificent mansion we stood in belonged entirely to my family trust,
not to him.
He did not know that I controlled seventy-two percent of the voting shares in Beaumont Enterprises,
rendering him entirely powerless.
And he certainly did not know that Mr.
Vance had successfully traced millions of dollars through the secret offshore accounts he believed were invisible.
"Evelyn,"
Grant warned,
his voice suddenly dropping to a low,
urgent whisper as he stepped closer to me.
"Whatever games you are planning to play tonight,
I suggest you stop them right now."
I reached out my hand toward Mr.
Vance,
my fingers closing around the cold,
May you like
heavy edge of the grey folder,
and broke the red wax seal.
