Transmigrated Into The True Heiress-Chapter 153: Nobodies (Ya’ll Can Unlock)

Celine glared at her before turning back to the manager with a mocking sneer. "You expect me to believe that she’s somehow connected to Lyle Aelion?" She let out a derisive laugh. "How stupid are you? So this boutique doesn’t just accept pathetic little nobodies, but also shameless liars?"

The manager remained composed, but a flicker of irritation crossed her features.

Celine, however, wasn’t finished. She whirled around and marched toward Ephyra, her heels clicking against the marble floor with each angry step.

"And you—" she spat, her voice dripping with contempt, "how dare you even think of using Lyle Aelion’s name to elevate yourself? Do you have any idea who he is?" Her eyes burned with rage as she leaned closer, voice lowering into a sharp whisper. "Men like him wouldn’t even spare a glance at a disgrace like you."

Ephyra didn’t flinch. She didn’t even blink. Instead, she studied Celine with cool detachment, as if she were nothing more than a particularly dull inconvenience. Then, with agonizing slowness, she tilted her head, lips curving into a lazy, amused smile.

"Oh?" she murmured, her tone laced with deliberate condescension. "Is that what you think?"

Celine’s nostrils flared. "That’s what I know."

Ephyra exhaled softly, shaking her head as if disappointed. "It’s fascinating, really," she mused, tracing the rim of her teacup with a manicured finger. "The way you speak with such certainty, as if you have even the faintest idea of what you’re talking about."

Celine’s hands curled into fists. "Don’t you dare—"

Ephyra cut her off effortlessly, her voice dropping to a silken purr. "Tell me, darling... do you often speak for men who’ve never acknowledged your existence?"

Jania choked on a laugh.

The words landed with preciseness, slicing through Celine’s composure like a scalpel. Her expression flickered, her carefully crafted arrogance fracturing for the briefest moment before she quickly masked it with fury.

"You—"

"—must be terribly envious." Ephyra’s voice was smooth, unhurried. "I imagine it’s exhausting, throwing tantrums just to be noticed, only to find that the people you so desperately want to impress couldn’t care less about you."

Then, Ephyra fixed Celine with a stare so detached, so utterly indifferent, that it made the other woman falter. Celine had never been looked at like this before—like she was nothing more than an insignificant annoyance,

"And that," Ephyra murmured, her voice laced with quiet amusement, "is precisely what this is, Miss Celine Carver."

The mention of her full name jolted Celine out of her stunned silence. Her face turned an angry shade of red as her nails dug so hard into her palms that they nearly broke skin.

"You pathetic little thing," she hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "Did you just fucking insult me?"

Ephyra tilted her head, her expression almost pitying. "No, I didn’t." Then, with a slow, deliberate step forward, she leaned in just enough to make Celine instinctively retreat. "But now I will."

The shift in the air was palpable. Gone was the amused detachment—what remained was something razor-sharp, something lethal.

"You call me pathetic and miserable," Ephyra mused, her voice soft, yet cutting, "but have you taken a good look at yourself?" She let the question linger, savoring the way Celine stiffened. "A spoiled, insufferable brat who thrives on making life miserable for others just because she can. A petty, hateful little thing who throws tantrums like a child, thinking that cruelty makes her powerful."

Ephyra took another step forward, and Celine took another step back.

"But the real tragedy?" Ephyra continued, her voice dropping to a low, almost mocking purr. "You’re nothing more than a foolish, gullible, neglected piece of shit with absolutely nothing to your name except your last one. No real power, no real worth—just an empty, bitter existence spent chasing after people who will never want you."

Silence.

Celine’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling too fast as she gaped at Ephyra, the weight of her words settling like lead in her stomach.

Then the anger burned hot, scorching through Celine’s veins as Ephyra’s words reverberated in her mind—over and over and over—until all she could see was red. Before she even realized it, she reacted.

"Fuck you!" she screamed, her palm flying toward Ephyra’s face in a blind slap.

But before she could land the hit, her wrist was caught in an unyielding grip. In an instant, her arm was twisted sharply, forcing her forward, and before she could even register what was happening, a brutal shove sent her crashing onto the marble floor. Her cheek smashed against the cold surface, a sharp pain radiating through her skull, but the humiliation burned worse. frёeweɓηovel.coɱ

She gasped, struggling against the weight pinning her down, but it was useless. It took a moment for her dazed mind to process that she was screaming.

Across the room, Celine’s guards instinctively moved to intervene—only to freeze as pain shot through their bodies, sharp and sudden, rendering them momentarily paralyzed–eyes widening in shock. The next sensation they felt was the unmistakable chill of gun barrels pressing against their heads.

"Don’t move."

The words came in unison from the men restraining them, their voices devoid of warmth, mechanical in their finality.

Meanwhile, Ephyra crouched down beside Celine, her fingers lazily tracing an invisible pattern on the floor. "You?" she mused, tilting her head as if genuinely baffled. "You thought you could slap me?" A soft chuckle left her lips, almost pitying. "Oh, darling. First, you have to be more than a spoiled little brat to even dream of hitting me. And second..." She leaned in, her breath ghosting over Celine’s ear. Her nails traced the line of Celine’s trembling jaw before gripping it painfully. "No one—no fucking one—has the right to touch me."

Celine writhed under the pressure on her skull, her hands clawing at the floor. "Let me go! It hurts! It fucking hurts! Let me go!" she sobbed, her pride cracking with every desperate plea.

Ephyra let out a slow, pleased hum. "Aww, what a disgrace. The high and mighty Celine Carver, reduced to this." She lifted her gaze toward the boutique manager, who stood frozen in a mix of shock and silent awe. "Don’t you think this should be recorded for future reference, Manager?"

The woman swallowed hard, her eyes flickering from Ephyra to the guards—restrained and helpless—before slowly lifting Celine’s phone, where the call was still on.

"Let me go!" Celine screeched again, her voice raw. "Guards! Guards, help me! Get her off me! Guards!"

Ephyra chuckled, feigning sympathy. "Oh, sweetheart... I think you should save your breath. Your guards seem a little preoccupied." She gestured lazily toward the motionless men, their faces taut with suppressed pain as the gun barrels remained pressed against their temples.

Taking her phone from Jania, Ephyra swiped across the screen and began recording, angling the camera to capture Celine’s pathetic state—the tear-streaked face, the panic in her eyes, the trembling fingers clutching helplessly at the floor.

"I’m sure this will come in handy," she mused, tilting her head. "Want to know why?" She didn’t wait for an answer. "Pride," she continued smoothly. "It’s such a fragile thing, isn’t it? Humans cling to it so desperately, never willing to let go. And you, Celine?" She let her gaze drag over Celine’s trembling form. "Your pride is so fucking high that even the tallest mountain looks insignificant next to it. I imagine you wouldn’t want anyone—oh, let’s say, a curious child who’s never even heard of you—to see you like this."

She smiled, and then, as if addressing someone unseen, she lifted her gaze.

"Don’t you agree, Mr. Peter Carver?"

The room went silent.

The only sounds were Celine’s ragged breathing and the soft, broken whimpers that escaped her lips.

Then, at last, a voice—thick with power and cold as steel—echoed through the space.

"What do you want?"

Ephyra’s smile widened, slow and sharp. "Simple. I want you, your granddaughter, and every other pathetic member of your crooked family to remember me." Her gaze flickered back to Celine, watching as she flinched. "And for this—" she gestured to the scene before her, "—to never happen again."

She leaned back slightly, tapping the phone in her hand. "Oh, and one more thing," she added airily. "I want you to apologize to your granddaughter."

Silence stretched once more, thick with tension.

Then, a low chuckle. "Very well," Peter Carver said at last, his voice dripping with something unreadable. "What you ask for is easy enough. Allow me to arrange a private dining hall in one of the finest restaurants. I would be honored to host you as a token of—"

Ephyra cut him off without hesitation. "I don’t want a meal, Mr. Carver." Her voice was all silk and steel. "I want your apology. Here and now."

The pause that followed was long.

Then—another chuckle, deeper this time. "Very well."

There was a beat of silence before his voice rang out, colder than before.

"I sincerely apologize for my granddaughter’s behavior toward you and the staff. I hope you will be able to forgive her."

Ephyra tilted her head, studying the words, the tone, the subdued anger of them.

Then, satisfied, she ended the recording and threw Celine away from her.

"Get the fuck out of here."