The Heiress Crown of Deception

The scent of roses lingered in the air, heavy and cloying. Celeste Ashcroft stood at the edge of the grave, her fingers gripping the steel handle of the black umbrella above her. Rain dripped steadily, mingling with the tears on her cheeks, though she made no effort to wipe them away. The crowd surrounding her was a sea of black coats and solemn faces, but Celeste felt utterly alone.

Harrison Ashcroft, her father, had been many things-visionary, titan, and for better or worse, a king in his domain. Now, he was just a memory, a lifeless body buried beneath layers of earth and ash. The service had been suffocating, filled with people whose names she barely knew, each of them eager to murmur condolences or secure their place in the fragile hierarchy left in the wake of her father's death.

The rain picked up, drumming against the fabric of her umbrella. Celeste's stepmother, Isabelle, stood a few feet away, her face a porcelain mask of grief. Dressed in a sleek black gown, Isabelle radiated an ethereal beauty that had always made her seem untouchable. Yet there was something in the coldness of her gaze that unsettled Celeste. It wasn't the grief of a widow. It was something else entirely-something calculated.

"Celeste."

The voice jolted her from her thoughts. Oliver Hale, her closest friend since childhood, stepped forward, his own umbrella tilted precariously to shield them both. His presence was steadying, though the worry etched on his face made her stomach tighten.

"They're all watching you," he whispered, his voice low enough to be drowned out by the rain.

Celeste didn't glance at the crowd. She didn't need to. The board members, the family rivals, the sycophants-they were all waiting for a sign of weakness. Her every move was being dissected, her every breath weighed against the legacy of her father. Harrison had always said that power came with a price. She was beginning to understand exactly what he meant.

"I don't care," she murmured, her voice steady despite the storm inside her. "Let them watch."

Oliver frowned, his green eyes dark with concern. "You should. They'll use anything they can against you."

He was right, of course. The vultures had already begun circling the moment Harrison's death was announced. Gregory Ashcroft, her uncle, had made it abundantly clear that he believed Celeste was unfit to lead. And while Isabelle hadn't said it outright, her cool indifference spoke volumes. Celeste was twenty-eight, barely experienced in the business world, and the last person anyone expected to take control of Ashcroft Industries.

Except for her father.

The memory of their last conversation struck her with the force of a tidal wave. It had been late, just a week before his death, and they'd been sitting in his study. The room had been dimly lit, the scent of his favorite cigar mingling with the faint aroma of aged leather.

"I built this empire for you," he'd said, his voice firm yet tinged with something that felt alarmingly like desperation. "Not Gregory. Not Isabelle. You, Celeste."

She'd argued, of course. She wasn't ready. She didn't want it. But Harrison had dismissed her protests with a wave of his hand. "You'll understand, one day. Power isn't about readiness. It's about seizing the moment."

That moment had come far too soon.

A hand on her elbow brought her back to the present. Oliver was watching her, his expression softening. "You don't have to stay here. Let's go."

Celeste nodded, more for his benefit than her own. She allowed him to guide her away from the grave, the wet grass squelching beneath their feet. The crowd parted as they walked, and Celeste could feel the weight of their gazes. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though the earth itself was conspiring to pull her down.

At the edge of the cemetery, a sleek black car awaited. Oliver opened the door for her, and she slid inside, the leather seats cold against her skin. The car smelled faintly of cedar and lemon, a sharp contrast to the oppressive atmosphere outside.

The door closed behind her, and for a brief moment, the world was silent. Celeste closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the seat. Her chest ached, not from grief, but from the overwhelming sense of responsibility that now loomed over her like a shadow.

The sound of the driver's door opening made her sit up. Oliver climbed in beside her, shaking rain from his umbrella before settling it on the floor.

"I know this is the last place you want to be, but we need to talk," he said, his tone gentle but firm.

Celeste turned to him, her brows knitting together. "About what?"

"About the company. The board is meeting tomorrow. Gregory's going to make a move, and you need to be ready."

The mention of her uncle's name made her stomach churn. Gregory Ashcroft was everything her father had warned her about-ambitious, cunning, and utterly devoid of loyalty. He'd spent years waiting for an opportunity to take control of Ashcroft Industries, and now, with Harrison gone, he saw his chance.

"What kind of move?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

"Probably a vote of no confidence," Oliver replied. "He'll argue that you're inexperienced, that the company needs steady leadership during this transition."

"He's not wrong," Celeste admitted, bitterness creeping into her tone.

"That doesn't mean he's right," Oliver countered. "Your father believed in you, and so do I. But you need to show them you're serious. You can't let Gregory dictate the narrative."

Celeste's fingers curled into fists. She hated the thought of Gregory sitting in her father's chair, barking orders like he owned the place. Harrison had spent his life building Ashcroft Industries into a global powerhouse. It wasn't just a business-it was his legacy. Her legacy.

"I won't let him take it," she said, her voice steady.

Oliver nodded, a hint of relief flashing across his face. "Good. Then we need to prepare."

The car pulled up to the gates of the Ashcroft estate, a sprawling mansion that loomed like a fortress against the stormy sky. The wrought iron gates creaked open, and the car rolled up the long, winding driveway.

Inside, the house was eerily quiet. The usual hum of activity had been replaced by an oppressive stillness, as though the building itself was mourning its fallen king. Celeste stepped out of the car, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she entered the grand foyer.

Isabelle was waiting for her.

"Celeste," she said, her voice smooth and cool, like polished glass. "I'm glad you're back. We need to discuss tomorrow's meeting."

"I'm aware," Celeste replied, shrugging off her coat.

Isabelle's eyes flicked to Oliver, who lingered near the doorway like a silent sentinel. "I assume you've already been briefed?"

Celeste met her stepmother's gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of her scrutiny. Isabelle was a master of subtle manipulation, a woman who could bend people to her will with nothing more than a pointed glance. But Celeste was no longer the timid girl who had once tiptoed around her father's new wife.

"I have," she said simply.

"Good." Isabelle's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Then I trust you'll handle it appropriately. The board is expecting strength, not sentimentality."

"I'm aware of what they expect," Celeste said, her tone sharp.

Isabelle's smile faltered, just for a moment, before she regained her composure. "I'm sure you'll rise to the occasion. After all, you are your father's daughter."

Celeste said nothing, watching as Isabelle turned and glided up the grand staircase. The sound of her heels echoed through the cavernous space, a reminder of the battles yet to come.

Oliver approached, his expression grim. "She's not on your side, you know."

"I know," Celeste replied, her voice low.

"And Gregory?"

Her jaw tightened. "He's not my uncle anymore. He's my enemy."

Oliver placed a hand on her shoulder, his grip firm. "Then let's show them who they're dealing with."

Celeste nodded, her resolve hardening. She would not let them take what was hers. The Ashcroft legacy was built on power, and now, that power was hers to wield.

For better or worse, the heiress had risen.