Chapter 96: Don’t Lie

The moment I stepped onto the stage, the air shifted.Gasps rippled through the crowd, especially from those who knew me. Faces stiffened. Eyes widened. It was like watching people realize the ground beneath them wasn’t as solid as they thought.

Monica froze.

The woman who had always praised Lincy as the pride of the Ashbourne family, while treating me like a shadow, lost all color in her face. The smug smile she’d worn just minutes ago vanished. She had been boasting about Lincy’s future, her talent, her rise.

And there I was.

Standing under the lights.

Fate had flipped everything in a single breath.

Grant looked even worse. He stared at me as if I were a stranger. His mouth opened slightly, disbelief written all over him.

"How..." he muttered. "How can it be her?"

Lewis’s voice cut through the tension, steady and sharp.

"Why not her, Grant?" he said coolly. "Or have you never bothered to truly know your own daughter?"

Grant flinched.

Monica reacted instantly, her disbelief turning into accusation.

"This must be a mistake," she said quickly. "I’ve watched Riley grow up. She’s never been good at painting. She must’ve paid someone."

She grabbed Grant’s arm, panic creeping into her voice.

"There’s a live round coming. She won’t be able to fake that. If this blows up, it’ll drag the Ashbourne name through the dirt. Pull her out now, before it’s too late."

Grant hesitated.

The truth was, he had never paid attention to what I could or couldn’t do. Monica’s words planted doubt easily. The rumors around me were already loud. If this turned into a scandal, the damage would be real.

"What if she really did it out of jealousy?" his silence seemed to say.

Monica pressed harder.

"If this ruins Lincy’s future or hurts our family’s standing, can you live with that?"

Lewis didn’t move. His presence was calm but unyielding.

"You’re accusing her without proof," he said coldly. "Where’s your evidence?"

Monica crossed her arms.

"I don’t need proof. I know her. She’s never been capable of this."

That was when my mother finally spoke.

"Enough."

Her voice trembled, but it carried.

Everyone turned toward her.

"It’s your daughter who hired someone," she said, shaking with anger. "All of you put on a show and call it talent."

Even Grant was stunned.

My mother had always been quiet. Gentle. She never raised her voice. But now she stood straight, eyes blazing, every bit a protector defending her own.

Something about her expression made Grant falter.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Let’s stop arguing," he said. "We’ll know the truth soon enough."

But Monica refused to let go. She clutched his arm tighter.

"You still have time. If you don’t stop this now, we’ll be humiliated. Do you really want Lincy’s future ruined because of Riley’s stunt?"

Before he could answer, my mother reached for his other arm.

Her voice was calm. Firm. Unshakable.

"If you stop her," she said quietly, "I’ll file for divorce."

The word hit like a strike.

Everything froze.

Grant turned to her, shocked. Her eyes were red, but steady. She meant it.

For a moment, he looked torn caught between two women pulling him in opposite directions.

Then suddenly, he shook Monica off and pulled my mother into his arms.

"Why are we making such a big deal over a painting?" he said quickly, forcing a laugh. "It’s just a competition. Let people talk."

My mother broke down in his embrace.

"You’ve never believed in Riley," she cried. "She tried so hard for your approval. And now, when she finally has a chance to prove herself, you want to take it away?"

Grant went still.

She rarely cried. Seeing her like this clearly shook him.

He let out a long breath, his body finally relaxing.

"Alright," he said quietly. "I believe her. Just... stop crying."

He held her a little tighter, awkward but sincere. I couldn’t tell if it came from guilt or real care. But for once, he didn’t stand behind Monica. For that moment alone, it was enough.

From the stage, I could see everything clearly.

The crowd. The stiff smiles. The tension pulling at the air like an unseen current.

My gaze kept drifting back to my mom. A small part of me still feared that after all this, she might choose to stay with him again. Choose familiarity over freedom.

Then I noticed Vivian and Fiona. Both were trying hard to look calm, but their eyes betrayed them. Uneasy. Alert. Like they sensed something shifting beneath their feet.

But no one caught my attention the way Camilla did.

Her face wasn’t just shocked.

It was pale. Tight. Afraid.

And I knew exactly why.

I hadn’t stepped into this arena under a random name. I had used an identity from her past one she believed was buried forever.

Elena.

They say when your conscience is clean, you rest easily. But when you’ve built your life on lies, even silence feels loud.

Right now, Camilla looked hunted.

She didn’t know if this was coincidence... or fate closing in.

But life rarely works in accidents. Some things circle back on purpose.

As the host finished announcing the finalists, I walked across the stage and stopped in front of her. Calm. Unrushed.

I gently pinned the tag marked "S" onto her dress, then lifted my hand toward her with a soft smile.

"Ms. Morrigan," I said clearly, "I’m S. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you."

Her hand slid into mine.

Cold. Shaking.

In that instant, I saw it in her eyes. She wasn’t looking at Riley.

She was looking at Elena.

To her, it must have felt like the past stepping out of the dark. Not to haunt but to reclaim.

Her body stiffened. She took a small step back, instinct screaming at her to retreat.

I leaned in, my voice low, meant only for her.

"You look pale," I murmured. "Are you afraid of me... or just guilty?"

To everyone else, it looked polite. Professional. Two finalists sharing a moment.

Camilla forced a smile, her voice tight as she answered softly, "Ms. Ashbourne... I didn’t expect you to hide something like this."

I met her gaze, steady and calm.

"That’s because there’s still a lot you don’t know."

I leaned closer again, my smile widening too sharp to be kind.

"You’re very brave," I whispered. "Stealing someone else’s work and standing here like it belongs to you."

The color drained from her face.

She tried to step back once more, but I placed an arm lightly around her waist, steadying her like a gracious rival.

My voice dropped to a whisper.

"When something isn’t yours," I said softly, "you return it. If I were you, I’d walk away now before everyone sees the truth."