Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Damian
"Sir, all the evidence is ready. Once Cecilia shows up anywhere with network coverage, we'll have her location locked within two hours..."
In the legal department office at Wentworth Tower, the printer hummed at high frequency, spitting out page after page of cross-border money laundering and corporate espionage conviction evidence.
There was also complete documentation—surveillance footage and encrypted files—of Cecilia bribing Ivy's staff and forging legal documents.
I let out a breath and sank into my chair.
I wanted to grab my phone and text Ivy, but realized it had died hours ago.
"Charlie! What time is it?"
"Sir, it's only three-thirty. We managed to pull everything together in just over four hours—"
"Damn it!" I shot up. The chair scraped out a sharp screech, cutting Charlie off.
Had Ivy already gone to her prenatal appointment? Was she okay? I'd been so focused on dealing with Cecilia that I'd forgotten to contact her. Hadn't even noticed my phone dying.
I plugged in the charger. The screen lit up and messages flooded in.
The first one that popped up was a photo Ivy had sent ten minutes ago.
The moment I opened it, my pupils contracted. My blood froze in a split second.
On screen was the deliberately angled shot that psycho had taken when I'd pushed her away—making it look like I was embracing and kissing her.
What made my head spin was the stream of news alerts showing that maniac had already spread those fabricated images across every major social platform. God knew what Ivy was going through right now.
"Fuck!" I slammed my fist on the desk. My shoulder wound flared with searing pain from the violent motion, but I couldn't care less.
"Charlie! Kill those news stories, schedule a press conference for tomorrow, and get everyone hunting for Cecilia's whereabouts! Get some security and have a car ready for Brooklyn!"
I grabbed my jacket and bolted from the office without waiting for Charlie's response.
In the descending elevator, I pressed the voice message button with shaking hands and shouted into Ivy's chat, my voice nearly incoherent.
"Ivy! Listen to me! It's fake! Cecilia escaped surveillance last night and staged that angled photo!
I swear nothing happened with her—you have to believe me! !"
But there was no reply. When I called, it went straight to that endless busy tone.
I had the driver floor it the entire way.
When we reached the bakery, I could see a crowd gathered outside from a distance. The shop door was shut tight.
Damn it. All my fault. I knew Cecilia might go after Ivy, but I'd forgotten to send security to protect her first.
These people were clearly Cecilia's doing, meant to create an even bigger media circus.
I had Charlie and the security team deal with the mob of phone-waving, excitement-hungry gawkers while I slipped in through the back.
The kitchen reeked of burnt butter. The place was empty. I ran upstairs to the break area—dead silence that made my heart pound.
"Ivy? Ivy, where are you?"
No. Please, Ivy, don't leave me again. Panic and desperation strangled my throat. I frantically dialed her private number, and this time, it connected.
A faint ringtone sounded. I held my breath and tracked it to the attic rooftop at the very top.
I raced up the narrow, worn wooden spiral stairs.
Pushing open the heavy metal door to the rooftop, I spotted her immediately.
Ivy sat on the edge of the low wall in an oversized windbreaker. Her hands rested gently on her slightly rounded belly, her long hair whipping in the wind. She looked so fragile, like the evening breeze could carry her away at any moment.
"Ivy..."
My feet went numb. I didn't dare even breathe, terrified that the slightest disturbance might make her lose control and fall.
I slipped off my shoes as quietly, as humbly as possible, and inched barefoot toward the low wall beside her.
As I got closer, I instinctively glanced down. The height wasn't that extreme, but for a moment my vision swam.
I forced myself to look at her calm, colorless profile and those clearly tear-reddened eyes. I was nearly ready to drop to my knees.
"Ivy, don't believe those tabloids. It's all fake evidence Cecilia manufactured to destroy your shop. And those photos—I only went to get the materials she was using to blackmail you. I swear I didn't touch her, not even a finger. Please don't do anything stupid, I'm begging you—"
"Damian." She suddenly turned to me and smiled, her expression filled with gentle release. "If I didn't believe you, if I was still running away like I did two years ago, I wouldn't be sitting here... waiting for you to come back."
Those words struck like salvation falling from heaven, instantly shattering all the darkness and panic inside me. I froze in place. My eyes burned red, and for the first time in thirty years, humiliating tears poured down my face.
She believed me. After everything—all the cold treatment, all the provocations—she'd chosen to stand by me.
"I was just sick of all that mess and needed somewhere quiet to clear my head, Damian—" Before she could finish, I lunged forward and crushed her into my arms.
"Thank you. Thank you, Ivy. I love you." My voice shook apart, every word clawed from my broken chest.
She paused, then gently wrapped her arms around me.
"Damian, actually... when I first saw that photo, I was scared.
But I could feel you'd really changed, so I chose to trust you.
And I finally have the courage to face the coward I used to be.
" She tilted her head slightly, her gaze drifting past my shoulder to the city skyline shrouded in dusk.
"Look. This city may be crowded and noisy, full of lies and schemes, but it still has corners that belong to us. Our love."
I followed her gaze. On the distant horizon, the setting sun painted all of New York a magnificent, deep crimson.
Then I looked down. The street below—which had felt bottomless before—now seemed normal, even warm.
For over twenty years, my fear of heights had been my most closely guarded weakness. Standing at any height, that dizzying sense of abandonment would choke me.
But right now, with the woman I loved in my arms, my palm resting on her swelling belly, that suffocating shadow of vertigo vanished completely.
We held each other tight on that Brooklyn rooftop. Neither of us spoke again.
That night, we ignored the avalanche of rumors and Cecilia's dirty tricks. We just lay in bed, feeling each other's heartbeats.
Of course, things still needed handling.
"If Cecilia wants to play dirty in the legal and PR gray zones, then we'll give her a funeral broadcast live across America."
On the drive back to Manhattan, I gripped Ivy's hand hard. This time, we'd deal with everything together.
Nearly a hundred mainstream financial media outlets, local food safety reporters, and gossip magazines from across New York surrounded the press conference with their cameras. Flashbulbs fired like a rainstorm.
I put on a tailored suit and stood stone-faced at the center of the podium.
"Thank you all for coming. Regarding recent false rumors about the Brooklyn establishment 'Oats & Flowers,' the Wentworth board is here today to present the complete truth."
I skipped all pleasantries and pressed the remote control with cold precision.
Behind me, the hundred-inch ultra-HD screen blazed to life with the complete evidence chain our special security and legal teams had compiled overnight.
It clearly displayed offshore account bank records showing Cecilia had transferred exactly fifty thousand dollars in installments to that part-time employee over the past month.
Next came the official food safety tracking code revealing that the so-called internal failed inspection report was forged, with all IP addresses pointing to Cecilia's private laptop at her hotel.
Finally, hundreds of pages of email exchanges documenting years of corporate espionage.
"This... this is shocking. An Ivy League graduate capable of such despicable, unconscionable acts!"
Reporters below went wild with their shutters.
But that wasn't the end.
"Additionally, we've invited a special witness today." I smiled coldly and turned toward the side door, gesturing. "Please."
Two private security guards in black suits slowly wheeled in a specialized wheelchair.
"Is that Alexander?" Someone in the crowd recognized him.
Alexander coughed twice. His voice was raspy but every word clear through the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I'm Alexander.
A year ago, this woman on screen—Cecilia—accumulated massive debts after being scammed herself.
But she used her so-called 'business credibility' to get close to me in upper-class circles.
Through the most despicable physical manipulation and lies, she drained a hundred million euros in offshore cash from my family trust, completely destroying my group's operations.
She fled back to New York overnight because that stolen fortune was then swindled from her by someone else due to her own greed—she's nothing but a fraud! "
The murmuring below grew louder. This was no longer just a food safety clarification. This was a shocking scandal involving cross-border commercial fraud and cross-class slander.
Cecilia's carefully constructed "socialite" persona was stripped bare in this moment, not a shred of dignity left.
Amid the blinding flashbulbs and uproar, Ivy—now wearing a proper suit—walked steadily onto the platform, accompanied by Penny and Lucas, her eyes firm and clear.
"Hello, everyone. I'm Ivy, founder of 'Oats & Flowers.' I'm here to formally address recent rumors about our shop."
She showed no fear or accusation. She simply leaned against the podium with one hand and displayed six weeks of organic ingredient purchase records on screen, along with the official top-grade compliance certificate Brooklyn's health department had issued after an overnight inspection this morning.
On the right side of the screen, hundreds of voluntary testimonials and support videos from longtime neighborhood customers played on loop.
I stood in the shadows at the side of the stage, watching Ivy speak confidently and beautifully under countless camera flashes. In this moment, she was no longer the wife I'd once overlooked. She was herself.
I had been the one holding her back. With my misguided protection, I'd clipped her wings. Now, watching her emerge transformed, I felt an indescribable surge of admiration and pride.
This press conference triggered a textbook reversal in American public opinion.
The mud thrown at Ivy instantly transformed into overwhelming sympathy and admiration. The image of an independent woman who stood up to elite suppression while maintaining her principles and using only the cleanest ingredients went viral across North American social media.
The corner bakery became a legendary phenomenon representing independent women and top-tier quality.
Orders for "Oats & Flowers" exploded tenfold in a single morning. The reservation system repeatedly crashed from server overload.
The next morning, before the shop even opened, a massive line stretched three full Brooklyn blocks. Wealthy women and professionals who'd driven from Midtown and the Upper East Side wanted to buy out every lemon tart and lavender cookie.
"Miss Sinclair, about that earlier withdrawal email—that was a mistake. We'd like to triple our investment with no management rights required—"
Before they could finish, Ivy hung up.
"Well done, Ivy. We don't need profit-obsessed investors like that anyway." Penny gave her an approving look.
"That's the tenth call in just a few hours." Ivy shrugged with a hint of mockery. "Seems some people finally realized what they missed. But now we get to be selective."
I was wearing that slightly ridiculous bear apron in the back kitchen, clumsily helping Ivy wash freshly delivered blueberries. Watching their hopeful smiles, I felt a long-lost peace and contentment.
Charlie called just as I finished up.
"Sir, it's over." Charlie's voice carried a smile. "Fifteen minutes ago, Cecilia was arrested at JFK's VIP private cargo gate by Interpol and NYPD working together. She was trying to board with a fake passport."
My hand on the oven cloth paused. "And?"
"The evidence chain was too complete. The federal judge denied all bail requests. Prosecutors formally charged her with defamation, cross-border financial fraud, and multiple counts of corporate espionage. She'll probably spend the rest of her life in prison."
"Got it."
I hung up and tossed my phone aside.
I looked up. Ivy stood by the sunlit floor-to-ceiling window, her hand resting gently on her belly.
I walked up behind her and carefully, tenderly wrapped my arms around her and our baby.
This heart had finally found its happiest home.