Lahat ng Kabanata ng Breaking The Spotlight: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

“Every empire has cracks. We’re about to find out how deep ours go.”The mahogany-paneled boardroom inside Sinclair Media Headquarters had never felt more suffocating. Even with the towering glass windows letting in morning light, there was a weight in the air, the kind that came before tectonic shifts.Celeste sat at the long table in a navy-blue suit dress, posture poised but unyielding. Beside her, Damien remained silent, hands folded, eyes sweeping across the twelve board members seated before them. His expression was unreadable. Almost surgical.They had called this emergency meeting less than twelve hours after receiving the footage of Morgan. Celeste hadn’t slept. She didn’t look like she needed to.“Thank you for coming in on short notice,” she began, voice even but firm.Several board members exchanged glances. Most had the decency to look curious. A few looked outright nervous.Celeste noted them. Every flicker of discomfort. Every tightened jaw and darting eye.“We’ll make

The stories didn’t come in a wave. They bled out, like pinpricks in the dark, precise, intentional, and slow enough to feel like paranoia until it was too late.One article accused Damien Sinclair of orchestrating the collapse of a boutique agency ten years ago, claiming he leveraged industry contacts to swallow its client roster, while another hinted at blackballed actors who’d mysteriously vanished after crossing him. The headlines didn’t scream scandal. It was subtle. Each one phrased just carefully enough to sound like truth, just speculative enough to avoid lawsuits.Damien skimmed them with the stillness of a predator observing its hunters."They’re smart," he muttered, tossing the tablet onto the breakfast counter in their penthouse. "There's nothing that can be directly traced back to Veronica, but her fingerprints are all over it."Celeste, still in her robe, sipped her coffee and studied him. “They’re painting you as a corporate hitman. Someone ruthless and unforgiving.”“Th

The studio was quiet in a way that made Celeste’s heartbeat sound louder than it should. A single spotlight was aimed at the ivory chair where she sat, legs crossed at the ankles, palms resting on her lap. Across from her, journalist Marsha Langley, poised, gentle-eyed, with a reputation for empathy over scandal, waited for the cue.The red light blinked on. Live.Celeste exhaled slowly, her voice even but low when she began. “I’ve been asked why I chose to do this. The truth is, I wasn’t sure I wanted to, but there comes a point in one's life u6where silence protects no one except the people who hurt you.”A pause.“I’ve lived a lot of my life in front of cameras. But what people haven’t seen, what I’ve never allowed them to see, is what happened when they stopped rolling.”Marsha nodded, inviting her to continue.“I was eighteen when I lost my mother. It gutted me. She was my anchor... my voice of reason when the world spun too fast. When she died, I kept going like I didn’t feel it

The world held its breath. It was rare that the public felt so invested in one man’s paternity test, but Damien Sinclair was no ordinary man. He was the billionaire media titan. The face of Sinclair Media. And now, the accused father of a secret love child born out of betrayal.News channels ran endless loops of speculation. Talk shows dissected timelines. Anonymous sources popped out of nowhere to offer statements that were vague, shady, and mostly false.Celeste sat in the living room with her phone turned face-down. The TV was off. For once, she didn’t want to see the headlines. She didn’t want to feel the weight of the world’s gaze pressing down on her like it had when she was younger, when a scandal could undo her completely.Damien walked in, holding a manila envelope."It’s here," he said.Celeste stood. Her heartbeat stalled. She didn’t ask what it was. She knew.He opened the envelope slowly. Deliberately. Pulled out the papers. Read. Then looked up at her with a breath that

The courtroom had that unnerving silence people usually associated with funerals, except here, the dead thing wasn’t a person. It was about trust, reputation and maybe even legacy.Celeste sat at the plaintiff’s table, spine straight but not stiff. Damien was beside her, silent, unreadable except for the barely-there movement of his thumb against his jaw. That was how she knew he was grinding his teeth. She didn’t look at him. If she did, she’d start absorbing his tension, and she needed to stay focused.The judge entered.“All rise.” The court marshall announced.They stood. Formalities began. Celeste barely heard them.Veronica Hale was seated just across the room. White suit. Perfect hair. Red lipstick. Displaying a performance of innocence and control. But Celeste could see the cracks now, how her fingers clutched the arm of her chair a little too tightly, how her lawyer kept glancing at her like she was a grenade with a faulty pin.The judge’s voice brought Celeste back.“We are