Chapter 5 - The Vale Counter-Attack
By seven o'clock the following morning, the front page of the *Philadelphia Inquirer* carried a massive photograph of Adrian Mercer holding Maribel Vale’s arm outside the estate.
The headline read: **MERCER SHOCKS HIGH SOCIETY: DITCHES VALE HEIRESS FOR 'MYSTERY SISTER' IN $800M PROJECT.**
Inside the Vale mansion, the breakfast room was a war zone.
China coffee cups lay shattered on the Persian rug. Everett paced behind the dining table, his face purple with fury, while Vivian sat rigidly with an iPad in her trembling hands, reading through the venomous social media commentary burning through elite circles.
"They're calling Celeste a fraud!" Vivian shrieked, slamming the tablet onto the polished mahogany. "The Garden Club has already suspended my chairmanship! Victoria Sterling called me ten minutes ago asking if the rumors about Celeste’s designs were true! Do you realize what this does to our standing?"
Celeste sat in the corner, her eyes swollen, dark mascara tracks staining her cheeks. "He humiliated me! In front of everyone! In front of Julian!"
Julian Vance—Celeste’s fiancé and the scion of Vance Financial Group—stood near the window, his arms crossed, his expression deeply sour. "My father called me half an hour ago, Celeste. Vance Financial holds twenty million in bridge loans on the riverfront development. If Mercer pulls his equity, the city will rescind the permits. We could lose everything."
Everett whirled around, pointing a shaking finger at Julian. "Nobody is losing anything! This is Maribel! She’s a coward! She’s lived under my thumb for twenty-eight years! She has no backbone, no public presence, and no stamina for a corporate bloodbath!"
"Then how do you explain her walking out with Mercer?" Julian snapped coldly. "She didn't look like a coward last night, Everett. She looked like someone who just slit your throat on live television."
Vivian stood up, her eyes narrowing into slits of pure, calculating malice. "Then we destroy her."
Everett stopped pacing. "What?"
"We destroy her credibility before Mercer’s legal team can file the official project documentation," Vivian said, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. "Maribel has always been sensitive. Reclusive. We put out a press release this morning. We express deep family concern. We say that Maribel has suffered from severe psychological instability since Ruth died. We claim she became obsessed with Celeste’s work, stole internal research files from Celeste’s computer, and fabricated this entire dispute in a manic episode."
Celeste looked up, a glimmer of cruel hope igniting in her eyes. "Can we do that?"
"We own half the lifestyle editors in this city," Vivian said coldly. "And Julian’s connections can handle the business press. We make Adrian Mercer look like a gullible investor being manipulated by an emotionally disturbed, jealous younger sister. Once the press starts digging into her 'mental instability,' Adrian will drop her. He can't afford a public relations catastrophe on an eight-hundred-million-dollar municipal project."
Everett rubbed his chin, the gears turning in his head. "Yes... yes, that could work. It isolates her. And if Adrian drops her, she has nowhere to go. She’ll come crawling back on her knees, and she’ll sign whatever non-disclosure agreement I put in front of her."
Julian checked his watch, a smirk touching his lips. "The Whitmore Foundation is hosting its annual post-gala donor luncheon at the Bellevue Hotel at noon today. Every major philanthropist and city council member will be there. If Celeste shows up—looking dignified, heartbroken, and concerned for her sister’s wellbeing—we can control the narrative before Mercer even gets his lawyers into court."
Celeste wiped her tears, standing up straight. The pathetic victim vanished, replaced by the calculating socialite who had built her life on Maribel’s stolen labor.
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"Call the stylist," Celeste said, her voice hardening. "I’m going to make sure my little sister regrets the day she ever learned how to hold a pencil."
***
