Chapter 5

Charlotte Gallegos POV:

While Emmitt was tracking down the ghost of Julian Croft, Carmella decided it was time to tighten the screws. She must have sensed a shift in me, a subtle change in the air. The quiet despair she was used to had been replaced by a quiet purpose, and it made her nervous.

Her methods were, as always, insidious. She didn' t confront me directly. Instead, she began a campaign of psychological warfare, using my family as her unwitting soldiers.

It started with small things. My design sketches for a small community garden project-the only creative outlet I had-went "missing" from my desk, only to turn up in the shredder bin. Kash "joked" that I was probably getting too forgetful in my old age.

Then, Carmella started having "nightmares." She would tell Ashton, in a trembling voice loud enough for me to overhear, that she kept dreaming about me, about a "darkness" she saw in my eyes. She was "worried" about my mental state.

Ashton, completely under her spell, arranged for the family doctor to pay me a visit, suggesting I might need to "adjust my medication." The implication was clear: I was unstable. Unreliable. Prone to fantasy. It was the perfect preemptive strike against any accusation I might make.

The worst part was my parents. Desperate for the illusion of a happy, unified family, they went along with it.

"Carmella is just concerned for you, dear," my mother said, her eyes refusing to meet mine. "She has such a good heart. Perhaps you should just talk to the doctor. For our sake."

They weren't protecting me. They were protecting themselves from the uncomfortable truth I represented. They had chosen their scapegoat ten years ago, and they were not prepared to reconsider their verdict.

I felt like I was suffocating, the walls of my own home closing in. The hope that had bloomed in Emmitt' s office was struggling for air.

He called me the moment he left Croft's cabin.

"I've got it, Charlotte," he said, his voice crackling with energy over the line. "I've got everything. Encrypted emails, original file transfers with timestamps, a full recorded confession. We have her."

Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and sudden. I pressed a hand to my mouth to stifle a sob of pure, unadulterated relief. For a decade, I had been a character in a story someone else had written for me. Now, I finally had the power to write my own ending.

"What do we do now?" I asked, my voice thick with emotion.

"Now, we choose our stage," Emmitt replied. "We don't just clear your name. We detonate this thing in the most public way possible. We make sure they can't sweep it under the rug. What's the biggest event on the Gallegos Construction calendar?"

An answer came to me immediately. It was perfect. Poetic, even.

"The annual Gallegos Foundation Gala," I said. "It's in two weeks. It's the company's biggest press event of the year. The mayor is speaking. Every major news outlet in the city will be there."

"Perfect," Emmitt said, a grim satisfaction in his tone. "Get ready, Charlotte. The show is about to begin."

The two weeks leading up to the gala were the longest of my life. I had to maintain my facade of the subdued, broken pariah while a revolution was brewing inside me. Carmella, sensing the impending gala and perhaps my strange calm, escalated her attacks.

She "accidentally" spilled a glass of red wine on the only decent dress I owned, the one I'd planned to wear. She then offered me one of her own, a sickly sweet pink monstrosity that was two sizes too small, an act of charity that was really an act of humiliation.

Ashton cornered me in the hallway the night before the event. His face was a mask of strained patience.

"Charlotte, I want you on your best behavior tomorrow," he warned. "This is a huge night for the company. For me. For Carmella. No scenes. No long faces. Just stand in the back, smile when you're supposed to, and try not to exist too loudly. Can you do that for me?"

I looked at my brother, at the man who had stolen my future and then spent ten years telling me I should be grateful for the cage he'd built around me. I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Just a vast, empty distance.

"Of course, Ashton," I said, my voice smooth as glass. "I wouldn't dream of making a scene."

He seemed satisfied, patting my shoulder in a condescending gesture of approval before walking away. He had no idea that the quiet sister he thought he'd broken was about to burn his entire world to the ground.

I didn't need a new dress. Emmitt had taken care of that. The day of the gala, a box arrived for me. Inside was a simple, impeccably tailored black dress. It was elegant, powerful, and unapologetic. It was the kind of dress a woman wears to a war, not a party.

There was a note attached. It was in Emmitt's messy scrawl.

"Knock 'em dead, kid."

As I zipped it up, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back was not the timid ghost who had haunted the Gallegos estate for ten years. Her eyes were clear. Her spine was straight.

She was ready for the show.