Chapter 3 - THE FALL OF THE SAINTThe auxiliary study on the ground floor of the mansion had been converted into a temporary interrogation room.
Celeste sat at the center mahogany table, her hair slightly disheveled, her cream trousers stained with spilled milk. The facade of the serene, philanthropic angel had completely dissolved; her eyes were hard, narrowed, and spitting venom as Nathan walked into the room and pulled out a chair opposite her.
“You’re ruining everything, Nathan,” Celeste hissed, leaning forward over the table. “You think you’re so righteous? You think building towers across the world makes you a man? You were never here! You left me alone in this mausoleum with your brats and your dead wife’s ghost!”
“You chose to stay, Celeste,” Nathan said quietly, resting his forearms on the table.
“Of course I stayed! Do you know what it’s like to live in Grace’s shadow?” Celeste shrieked, her voice echoing off the wood-paneled walls. “Everywhere I went in Boston, people whispered: ‘Oh, that’s Grace Whitmore’s best friend. Look how kind of her to look after the widower.’ I wanted what she had! I wanted the money, the estate, the power! And she was too weak, too trusting, too pathetic to keep it! A few drops in her chamomile tea every night, and she just faded away like a ghost.”
Nathan didn't yell. He didn't hit the table. His voice remained chillingly calm.
“You didn't just want her life, Celeste. You wanted her children out of the way so you could liquidate the remaining trust funds and vanish to Europe with your lover.”
Celeste’s eyes flared with shock. “How do you—?”
“My forensic team traced your offshore accounts an hour ago,” Nathan said, sliding a printed financial ledger across the table. “Every penny you stole from the Oak Fund and Grace’s personal estate is already frozen. Your passport has been flagged by federal customs. You aren't going to Europe, Celeste. You’re going to Framingham State Prison for the rest of your natural life.”
Celeste stared at the ledger, her face turning pale as grease. The illusion of invulnerability collapsed entirely. She slumped back in her chair, trembling, realizing that her meticulous, years-long conspiracy had been completely dismantled in less than six hours.
“You’ll never get a quiet trial,” she whispered bitterly. “I’ll tear your family name to shreds in the press. I’ll make sure the world knows everything.”
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“The world,” Nathan said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, “is already reading the press release my public relations firm sent out ten minutes ago. By morning, your name won't be associated with the Whitmores. It will be associated with a prison number.”
He turned and walked out of the room, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a definitive click.
