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Chapter 221
Chapter 221:
Vivian looked up at Aurora, her eyes wide with shock and pain.
“You…”
“Shut up,” Aurora said. “Save your breath.”
Sebastian was standing over them. He looked down at the floor.
One of the papers Monica had thrown landed at his feet.
He picked it up.
It was a screenshot of a text conversation.
Monica: He’s turning blue.
Vivian: Ignore the color. It’s the body purging the bad energy. Hospital drugs will only trap the toxins inside. Trust me.
Sebastian’s hands began to shake. He read it again. Hospital drugs will only trap the toxins inside.
He looked from the paper to his sister. Vivian was bleeding, crying, playing the victim. But the words on the paper were cold, manipulative murder.
Vivian saw Sebastian reading. Panic set in, stronger than the pain of the wound.
“Seb!” she cried. “Those are fake! She forged them! Monica is insane!”
Monica, pinned down by two guards, laughed maniacally. Her red dress was twisted, her hair covering her face.
“Check her phone!” Monica screamed. “Check her sent messages! It’s all there!”
Guests started picking up the papers. The French Ambassador read one. Harper Yates read one.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The horror at the violence turned into a different kind of horror—judgment. Disgust.
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“She told her to avoid the hospital?” someone whispered.
“She prescribed herbs for heart failure?”
Harper Yates didn’t just read the paper. She pulled out her phone. She snapped a picture of the text log and the blood-spattered stage.
“Upload,” she whispered, hitting send on Twitter.
Within seconds, phones around the room began to buzz with notifications. The hashtag KensingtonKiller wasn’t just a rumor; it was a digital wildfire fueled by the live-streamed carnage.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Police. Again.
Vivian looked around the room. She was bleeding, yes. But she realized with a dawning terror that her reputation was hemorrhaging faster than her arm.
Matriarch Beatrice finally moved from the balcony. She rolled her wheelchair to the railing, looking down at the bloody tableau with eyes like flint. She didn’t look surprised. She looked like a judge delivering a verdict.
The police stormed the hall, weapons drawn.
“Drop the weapon!”
“She doesn’t have it!” Sebastian yelled, stepping back.
The officers handcuffed Monica. She went limp instantly, her rage spent, leaving only a broken mother.
