“It can wait ten more seconds.”
Isabelle inhaled slowly.
She glanced down at the folder in her hands.
Inside were the pieces of truth she had fought to collect.
Sebastian’s diary.
The silver locket.
Arthur Heywood’s auction records.
The assistant’s confession letter.
Old newspaper clippings.
Every lie.
Every correction.
Every proof.
A staff member stepped out from the hall.
“They’re ready for you.”
The roar of the crowd filtered through the curtain.
Isabelle straightened her shoulders.
“For Sebastian,” she whispered.
And walked onto the stage.
The room erupted with camera flashes.
Reporters leaned forward instantly.
Microphones rose like a forest of black stems.
Isabelle reached the podium and looked out over the crowd.
Her heart pounded.
But she remembered Sebastian’s smile the night she promised him.
And suddenly the fear disappeared.
“Good morning,” she began.
Her voice carried clearly through the hall.
“My name is Isabelle Carter.”
Murmurs rippled through the audience.
“I am here today because for one hundred years, history has told the wrong story about two people.”
She gestured toward the photograph behind her.
“Sebastian Thorne and Evelyn Thorne.”
The reporters scribbled quickly.
“For decades,” Isabelle continued, “historical records have claimed that Sebastian Thorne died after being betrayed by the woman he loved.”
Her voice hardened.
“That is not true.”
The room fell silent.
Isabelle opened the folder.
She lifted the diary first.
“This was written by Sebastian Thorne himself.”
A screen behind her displayed scans of handwritten pages.
Gasps echoed in the room as the elegant inked lines appeared.
“He wrote about his love for Evelyn,” Isabelle explained. “About his paintings. About his dreams. Not once did he accuse her of betrayal.”
Next she lifted a yellowed newspaper.
“This,” she said, “is the article that created the lie.”
The headline flashed on the screen.
SCANDALOUS BETRAYAL DRIVES ARTIST TO SUICIDE.
Murmurs rippled through the reporters.
“But here,” Isabelle said, lifting another document, “is what happened next.”
Arthur Heywood’s auction ledger appeared on the screen.
“Three weeks after Sebastian’s death,” Isabelle continued, “Arthur Heywood purchased fifteen of his paintings.”
The crowd stirred louder now.
She placed the final piece of evidence on the podium.
A fragile letter.
“This confession was written by Arthur Heywood’s assistant.”
She swallowed once before reading.
“He admits that Arthur ordered him to forge documents accusing Evelyn of selling Sebastian’s paintings. The betrayal was fabricated.”
Gasps exploded through the hall.
A reporter shouted from the back.
“Are you saying Arthur Heywood framed them both?”
“Yes,” Isabelle said firmly.
Another voice called out.
“Do you have proof the letter is authentic?”
Before Isabelle could respond, a gray-haired historian stepped forward.
An expert from the Historical Society.
“We have examined the documents thoroughly,” he said into the microphone. “The handwriting, ink composition, and archival records confirm their authenticity.”
Shock rolled through the room.
“For a century,” the expert continued, “the historical record of Sebastian Thorne’s death has been incorrect.”
He paused.
Then said the words that changed everything.
“Sebastian and Evelyn Thorne were victims of a conspiracy created by Arthur Heywood.”
Cameras flashed wildly.
Reporters shouted questions.
The truth had exploded into the world.
Later that afternoon, another screen lit up on the stage.
A live video connection from a prison interview room.
Dylan Heywood appeared on the screen.
He looked different.
Paler.
Exhausted.
The arrogance that once filled his posture had collapsed under the weight of exposure.
The room fell quiet again.
A reporter spoke first.
“Mr. Heywood, do you deny the accusations against your great-grandfather?”
Dylan stared at the table for several seconds.
Then he laughed weakly.
“No,” he said.
The word echoed through the hall.
“I don’t deny it.”
Gasps rippled again.
“My great-grandfather framed Sebastian Thorne,” Dylan admitted. “He wanted the paintings. They were already gaining attention in the art world, and he knew they’d be worth a fortune someday.”
He swallowed.
“He spread rumors that Evelyn betrayed him. Forged evidence. Bought the paintings after Sebastian died.”
Another reporter asked sharply.
“And you?”
Dylan closed his eyes briefly.
“I tried to steal them too.”
A wave of whispers moved through the crowd.
“I thought it was my family’s legacy,” he continued quietly. “But really… it was just greed.”
He looked up toward the camera.
And for the first time since Isabelle met him, his expression showed something real.
Regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
But the apology came a hundred years too late.
That evening, sunlight streamed through the windows of Apartment 307 in Brooklyn.
The apartment felt… different.
Warmer.
The heavy sadness that had once lingered in every corner had lifted like fog.
Isabelle Carter stepped inside slowly.
“Sebastian?” she called softly.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the air shimmered.
And Sebastian Thorne appeared near the piano.
But this time—