LISA’S POV
It’s strange how justice doesn’t roar.
It whispers.
Soft. Slow. Surgical.
Like watching a noose tighten in silence.
I stood in the vineyard’s courtyard, champagne glasses shattered underfoot, the flames from the server room still licking the sky behind us. But I wasn’t looking at the fire.
I was watching Celeste Whitmore—the queen of manipulation—get handcuffed like a petty thief.
Her wrists were red. Her expression, unreadable.
And still… she smirked.
As if this was just another performance.
“You think this ends with cuffs?” she asked the officer beside her. “You’ll need more than silver bracelets to hold me, darling.”
“Save your breath,” I snapped, stepping forward. “You’re not on stage anymore.”
Her gaze cut to mine. Cold. Surgical.
“I made you,” she whispered.
