"Is a simple apology enough? Do you expect me to kneel? That would give you the sensational headline you're desperate for, wouldn't it?"
A flicker of guilt passed through his eyes—there and gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a mask of cold indifference.
"An apology isn't enough." His voice dropped an octave. "Take the dress off. Now. Return it to its rightful owner."
The words hit the room like a match to gasoline. Shutters exploded into a frenzy, capturing my humiliation from every conceivable angle.
*Did I hear him right?*
Underneath, I wore only a thin base layer. If I stripped off this dress, I would be exposed to the world.
Naomi's gaze slid to my trembling hands, a sickly sweet smile curling her lips. "You really seem to like this dress, sis. Maybe I should just apologize to the designer and beg her to let you keep it."
Something inside me snapped.
"This dress was mine to begin with!" My voice cracked, raw and hysterical. "I designed it myself!"
*Slap.*
Joel's hand struck my cheek, wrenching my head to the side.
"Enough!" Shards of ice glittered in his eyes. "You still have the nerve to lose your temper at Naomi? You're wearing a base layer. The photos will be censored. What exactly are you pretending to be so precious about?"
My cheek burned, a stinging red mark blooming across my skin. But the pain was nothing—*nothing*—compared to the agony ripping through my chest.
The press conference had transformed into my public execution.
From start to finish, I was the only one on trial.
As I unzipped the dress, mocking laughter filled the air. Lips smacked wetly. Naomi hoisted her camera, the shutter clicking in rapid bursts, capturing every second of my shame.
"Here's a headline for you," she purred, venom dripping from every syllable. "'Retribution Never Fails—Thief Apologizes Naked in Public.' What do you think?"
The reporters cheered, feeding on the spectacle like vultures on carrion.
Joel watched me, twisted admiration flickering in his gaze—not for me. For Naomi's handiwork. "Looks like you'll own the front page tomorrow."
She looked down at me from her high vantage point, eyes gleaming with contempt and triumph.
When the farce finally ended, Joel spoke lightly, as if discussing the weather. "Don't worry. Everyone here is a female reporter. Your photos will be censored."
He paused, adjusting his cuffs.
"I'll let you off this time. Do not let it happen again."
All the strength drained from my legs. I didn't spare him another glance. I only wanted to grab my suitcase and board the first plane out of this hell.
But when I returned to the room, my blood ran cold.
The suitcase I had packed lay torn open, its contents strewn across the floor in a chaotic mess. The urn I had carefully hidden away—
Vanished.
The black-and-white memorial photo had been ripped to shreds, the face unrecognizable.
A primal scream tore from my throat. I ran out of the villa like a madwoman.
In the driveway, I found it.
The urn. Shattered. Its contents scattered across the pavement.
A stray dog was lapping at a pile of gray dust.
The nanny stood nearby, pointing at the ash with feigned innocence. "Ms. Henson said it was expired milk powder. She told me to feed it to the dog."
After the press conference, Joel cleaned up the PR disaster and sent me a message.
*Don't worry. I won't let your mistakes affect our son.*
*He is still my heir. As long as you behave yourself from now on, I will pretend today never happened.*
The messages sank like stones into a deep, dark sea.
No reply.
Joel walked into the villa, frowning as he caught two nannies gossiping near the driveway.
"Why does that milk powder look so much like... ash?" one whispered.
"And look at this." The other held up tattered pieces of paper. "I pieced the photo back together. Guess who it is? It's the Young Master's memorial photo!"
Joel froze.
He grabbed the nanny's arm, his voice rising in pitch. "What memorial photo?"
