Chapter 300
“Do you even know who you’re talking to, you insolent little brat?”
Dahlia slapped away the tissue Celestine offered her with a loud smack.
As if she needed that kind of pity!
She’d always known women from small towns like Oceanview were crude and completely lacking in manners. From the day her son brought Celestine home, Dahlia had sensed this day would come.
And here it was just as she’d predicted. Sanderson, true to his name, was hopelessly naive for thinking she’d ever stoop so low as to appease someone like this!
Celestine tilted her head, feigning confusion. “You mean to say you’re my
mother–in–law? Mrs. Fordham, you really do have a selective memory. On the day I married your son, you didn’t even bother to accept the traditional welcome. Not a single cup of tea from your daughter–in–law.”
Back when she and Chester first got together, Dahlia had been scouring all of Portside for a socialite worthy of her precious son. Her favorite candidate was the daughter of the city’s leading jeweler–a match she’d nearly arranged before Chester brought Celestine home instead.
In the end, Chester had married her–a wife with no fortune and no connections.
When Alistair insisted Celestine’s shares be equal to his, Dahlia had been even more furious than Chester.
Celestine spent years swallowing her pride, desperately trying to change how Dahlia saw her, always hoping to win a little approval. All she got for her trouble was a mess of heartache and humiliation.
To Dahlia, she was nothing more than a convenient, ever–available maid.
Those heartfelt online posts about mothers–in–law being kinder than your own mother? She’d never experienced anything close.
On her wedding day, Dahlia had made a scene and walked out, feigning illness halfway through the ceremony.
In the end, it was Sanderson, her father–in–law, who quietly doubled the customary “welcome gift” to smooth things over, urging her not to take it to heart.
As if she dared complain.
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But the lesson Dahlia taught her–some people only respect the powerful–would stick with her forever.
“Why are you bringing up ancient history?” Dahlia snapped, her face growing even
more sour.
She’d gotten a petty thrill from snubbing Celestine at the wedding, but Sanderson had torn into her for it afterwards–she still remembered the humiliation. And he
never once took her side!
The more she thought about it, the angrier she became. “Don’t try to change the subject! These documents are in my hands now. Truth or lies, that’s for me to decide–not you!”
Celestine didn’t even flinch. She fixed her gaze on the stack of files in Dahlia’s grip. “If you’re so certain, then let me remind you–submitting false evidence, especially regarding large sums, can land you in very serious trouble. Are you absolutely sure you want to go through with this?”
Her calm, measured tone actually made Dahlia falter.
There was money in those files, sure–the Selwyn family had definitely siphoned funds from the Fordham Group. But three hundred million? If anyone started digging…
The documents suddenly felt like a handful of burning coals.
Maybe this little snake was bluffing again!
Celestine saw Dahlia’s confidence waver, and knew this was her chance.
“If you insist on pressing this with fake accounts, then I’ll press charges. I won’t stop until justice is served.”
She spoke each word with quiet force, crushing whatever bravado Daia had left.
Dahlia’s nostrils flared with rage. “You’ve got some nerve! Just you wait if you ever dare set foot in the Fordham house again, you’ll be begging for my forgiveness on your knees!”
Celestine’s lips twisted in a faint, dismissive smile.
She didn’t even bother responding.
Did Dahlia truly think the Fordham family was some kind of prize?
Celestine would never look back–not in this lifetime.
Seeing Celestine’s indifference, Dahlia nearly exploded. Forgetting Sanderson’s orders to keep things civil, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.
The hospital room was left in shambles.
Luther bent to gather the scattered papers from the floor, regret etched deep into his lined face. “Celly, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
Even though the signatures were carefully forged, he could instantly tell–they bore Murdock’s unmistakable handwriting style.
