Chapter 5

Eliza POV:

Justin's hand, still clutching my arm, went slack. His face, which had been a mask of fury, now contorted into something akin to terror. He took an involuntary step back from Fiona, as if suddenly realizing whose side he had just so vehemently taken.

"Eliza, what-" he began, his voice a strangled whisper. He tried to take another step towards me, his eyes wide, a desperate plea forming in them.

But my body, still reeling from the shock and the onslaught, refused to move. The pain in my arm where he had gripped me was a dull throb, a physical reminder of his contempt.

"Justin, darling! Don't let her near me!" Fiona shrieked, pulling at his suit jacket. Her tears, now genuine, streamed down her face, smearing her expensive makeup. "She's insane! She attacked me! You saw it!"

Justin hesitated, caught between his mistress's dramatic plea and the horrifying realization that his entire carefully constructed life was unraveling before a crowd of witnesses. He looked at Fiona, then at me, then back at Fiona, a deer caught in headlights.

"She slapped me, Justin!" Fiona wailed, pointing an accusing finger at my face. "She's a lunatic! You have to get her away from here! Call the police!"

Justin immediately turned back to me, his face hardening. The brief flicker of recognition was gone, replaced by a desperate need to control the narrative. "Eliza, what have you done?! You assaulted Fiona! This is a public event! Do you know the trouble you're causing?"

He knelt beside Cecilia, avoiding my gaze. "Cici, baby, are you okay? What's wrong with you?" His voice was laced with a false concern that made my stomach churn. He didn't actually care. He just needed to appear like a caring father.

I observed him, my heart a frozen block in my chest. Justin, the powerful hedge fund manager, now clad in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than our annual rent, reeked of expensive cologne. He was a stranger. An opulent, deceitful stranger.

"Don't pretend, Justin," I said, my voice cutting through the manufactured drama. "Don't pretend you don't know who Fiona Wilson is. Or what she means to you."

The media, sensing a story far juicier than a celebrity charity event, pushed forward, microphones thrust out. Flashbulbs popped incessantly.

Justin's face, already pale, turned a sickly shade of green. He tried to stand, to silence me, but the sheer number of reporters blocked his path.

"Eliza, we can discuss this later! Privately!" he hissed, his eyes darting frantically around the room. "Don't make a scene! Think of Cecilia!"

"Think of Cecilia?" I laughed, a mirthless sound that scraped against my raw throat. "You didn't think of Cecilia when you chose to squander millions on this woman! You didn't think of Cecilia when you let her suffer in a mold-infested apartment while Fiona lived in your penthouse!"

"I'll give you whatever you want, Eliza!" he pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper. "Money! A new apartment! Just... just take Cecilia and leave! Don't do this here!"

My gaze swept over him, contempt palpable in my eyes. "What money, Justin? The money you made from insider trading? The money you laundered through offshore accounts to buy Fiona's 'surprise investments'?"

His jaw dropped. The color drained from his face entirely. He finally understood. I knew everything. Every single, ugly detail.

I didn't waste another word on him. I pushed past the throng of parents and reporters, my eyes fixed on the stage, where the event's elaborate sound system and projector stood. It was my chance. My only chance.

Justin, seeing my intention, let out a strangled cry. "Eliza, no! Don't you dare!" He tried to follow, but the reporters, now a frenzied mob, swarmed him, eager for a comment, a reaction. His attempts to push through were futile.

My hands moved with practiced precision, years of paralegal training kicking in. I found the main console, located the USB port, and without a moment's hesitation, I plunged my small, encrypted flash drive into it.

The large screen behind the stage, which had been displaying a logo for Fiona's charity, flickered. The logo vanished, replaced by a sleek, professional-looking presentation.

A hush fell over the crowd. Everyone, even Justin and Fiona, turned to stare at the screen.

Then, a clear, unmistakable voice filled the vast hall. It was Justin's.

"Don't worry, Fiona," the recording began, chillingly clear. "My 'other life' is just a side inconvenience. Easily managed. And honestly, it provides a nice alibi when I need to disappear for a few days. The girl's asthma is just an excuse anyway. She'll be fine. They always are."

Silence. Then, a collective indrawn breath from the audience. Gasps, whispers, shocked exclamations erupted like gunfire. The world was about to see the real Justin Mitchell.