Chapter 228 Chapter 228.

The venue had been chosen for its size.

That was what Christian told his team when they suggested a smaller location.

He wanted every major outlet in the country to have access. He wanted the announcement broadcast live, without editing, without selective quotations, and without the possibility of someone taking a sentence out of context and using it to tell a story he had never intended to tell.

Rows of seats stretched toward a raised stage, where a long table had been removed in favour of a single podium. Behind it stood a plain black backdrop bearing the name of the event.

The reporters noticed everything. They noticed the empty seats in the front row reserved for the Sinclair family.

The absence of Isabel Dolce, the fact that Christian’s mother had not arrived, and the fact that his personal legal team had taken positions at the sides of the stage.

And the fact that the man who had spent years avoiding unnecessary publicity had chosen to face the largest press group assembled for a personal announcement in recent memory.

By ten minutes to ten, the hall was full.

Cameras occupied the aisles. Photographers crowded behind barriers. Reporters compared notes and checked their microphones. Producers spoke rapidly into headsets, coordinating live feeds with studios across the country.

Every seat was occupied.

Several journalists stood at the back.

Outside, additional crews waited near the entrance, hoping to capture Christian’s arrival.

Inside, a young reporter leaned toward her colleague.

"Do you think he’s going to deny the relationship?"

Her colleague shook his head. "Then why invite everyone?"

"Damage control."

"Maybe."

He glanced toward the podium.

"But if I were him, I wouldn’t bring this many cameras to deny something I could deny in a statement."

Another reporter joined them.

"His mother told the press that the wedding is still happening."

"His mother isn’t the one standing up there today."

The three of them looked toward the stage.

Nobody said anything else.

At exactly ten o’clock, the lights shifted.

The room quieted, and then the doors at the back opened.

Christian Sinclair walked in.

For half a second, the hall held its breath. Then the flashes began. A thousand flashes at once.

White light exploded across the room, catching the sharp line of his shoulders, the dark fabric of his suit, and the movement of his hands as he adjusted his cuff.

The cameras went wild.

"Christian!"

"Mr Sinclair!"

"Christian, over here!"

"Is the wedding still happening?"

"Are you and Kylie Benneth in a relationship?"

"Did your mother approve this announcement?"

"Isabel Dolce has not arrived. Can you confirm whether she’s still your fiancée?"

"Christian, are you planning to marry Kylie?"

"Is it true that you paid to have the photographs removed?"

"Are you here to deny the affair?"

"Mr Sinclair, look this way!"

He kept walking. His expression was calm, almost detached.

He simply walked down the central aisle, his shoes making measured sounds against the polished floor.

Every camera followed him.

Every journalist tried to become the person who asked the question that would define the morning.

Christian reached the steps leading to the stage.

For a brief moment, he paused.

He could see the entire room from there. Hundreds of faces, and thousands of questions.

A sea of people waiting to hear whether the Sinclair heir would preserve the life his mother had chosen or set fire to it in front of them all.

His gaze moved across the front row as he climbed the steps.

The flashes intensified.

He reached the podium and placed both hands on either side of it. For a moment, he looked out at the room without speaking.

Then he leaned toward the microphone.

"Good morning."

The room erupted.

"Christian, is the engagement over?"

"Are you in love with Kylie Benneth?"

"Why have you called this press conference?"

"Isabel Dolce has reportedly said—"

"Mr Sinclair, did your mother threaten to withdraw your inheritance?"

He waited.

The questions continued.

A reporter near the front stood up.

"Christian, are you prepared to confirm or deny the rumours surrounding your relationship with Kylie Benneth?"

Christian looked at him. "Yes."

The reporter blinked. "Yes, you can confirm them?"

The hall grew louder.

Another journalist raised her voice.

"Then are you in a relationship with Miss Benneth?"

Christian’s mouth moved slightly. "I invited you here because I have something to say. I’ll take your questions afterward."

He straightened.

The room slowly settled.

Christian looked at the cameras.

He had prepared remarks.

His communications team had helped him organise them. His lawyers had reviewed them. Several sentences had been marked for removal, others softened, and one paragraph had been rewritten three times.

He had read the final version at two in the morning. He had discarded it at three. It sounded like everyone else, and he was tired of sounding like everyone else.

He took a breath.

"For years, I’ve been trying to be the perfect son for my mum."

The hall became quiet.

The cameras were still clicking, and a few people continued typing, but the noise changed. The reporters leaned forward. The television crews adjusted their angles.

Christian lowered his gaze for a moment.

"Not because I was trying to please her."

He paused.

"But because a part of me remained chained to the idea that I owed her something."

He looked up again.

"I watched everything motherhood took from her. She hated the idea of motherhood."

His fingers tightened around the edges of the podium.

"And somewhere along the way, I decided that the only way I could repay her was by giving her whatever she wanted from me."

A breath.

"My time, my obedience, my name, and my future." He swallowed. "Even my marriage."

A few reporters exchanged glances.

"And the truth is..." He exhaled through his nose. "I hate marriage."

The room shifted.

Somewhere in the second row, a woman stopped typing.

"Or at least, I hated the idea of marriage."

Christian looked down at his hands.

"I thought marriage was two families shaking hands while two people stood in the middle and smiled for photographs. I thought it was contracts, expectations, names, money, and power."

He lifted his eyes.

"I thought love was the part people added if they were lucky enough to find it afterward."

The words settled over the room.

"Then I met someone." He paused. "And that someone isn’t Isabel Dolce."

The cameras flashed.

"It’s Kylie Benneth."

The room erupted.

Questions flew from every direction.

"Christian!"

"Can you confirm that you’re in love with her?"

"Are you ending your engagement?"

"How long have you been seeing her?"

"Did you cheat on Isabel Dolce?"

"Mr Sinclair, was this relationship happening before the engagement?"

He lifted one hand, and the security staff at the sides of the stage shifted their attention toward the reporters.

"I said I’ll take your questions afterward."

The room gradually quieted again.

Christian looked directly into the central camera. "I get scared of anything that rises too fast."

A faint, almost disbelieving smile crossed his face. "Except sports cars."

A few people laughed. It was brief, unexpected, and gone almost immediately.

"But Kylie..." His expression changed. "She became my exception."

He took a breath.

"I didn’t plan for her. I wasn’t looking for her. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I needed someone."

His gaze softened. He looked like someone remembering a woman who had made him laugh when he hadn’t realised how badly he needed it.

"She just appeared."

He shook his head slightly. "And somehow, without asking for permission, she became important to me."

He looked down, smiling faintly to himself.

"She became the person I wanted to tell things to. The person I wanted to see after a long day. The person whose laugh I started recognising before I even saw her."

A woman near the front pressed her lips together.

Christian continued.

"The person who could argue with me for twenty minutes and somehow make me miss her five minutes later."

This time, the laughter in the room was warmer.

Christian’s smile lingered for a second. Then it faded into something quieter.

"She became the person who made my home feel like somewhere I actually wanted to go back to."

He stopped. The sentence seemed to surprise even him. He looked away from the cameras, and toward the empty seats in the front row.

"And I didn’t understand what was happening to me until it was already too late."

He looked back at the cameras. "I fell in love with her. Completely. Terribly. Without permission."

His mouth curved, but there was no humour in it. He let out a slow breath.

"Kylie didn’t come with a plan. She didn’t come with a family agreement. She didn’t come with a business proposal. She didn’t come with a list of things she could give me."

He leaned a little closer to the microphone.

"She came with herself." His voice dropped. "That was enough." He paused. "More than enough."

For a moment, he thought of the first time he met her.

"So when I woke up one day and realised the woman everyone had chosen for me wasn’t the woman I wanted..."

He paused. "I couldn’t pretend anymore."

A camera flashed directly in his face.

He barely blinked.

"I couldn’t stand beside Isabel and promise her a life when my heart belonged somewhere else."

His jaw tightened.

"That would have been cruel to her." He looked down for a moment. "It would have been cruel to me."

Then he looked into the camera again.

"And it would have been unforgivable to Kylie."

The room was completely still now.

"Kylie never asked to become part of this."

His voice became harder.

"She never asked for cameras to follow her. She never asked for strangers to search through her life. She never asked for people to dig through years of photographs and friendships and decide who she was based on pieces of her life they found online."

He looked from one side of the room to the other.

"And she certainly never asked to be called disgusting names because she was seen beside me."

He stopped.

His expression changed. The smile had disappeared. The easy charm was gone.

What remained was the man who had once made an entire boardroom fall silent with a single look.

"I’ve seen what you’ve said about her."

He spoke slowly.

"I’ve seen the comments. I’ve seen the photographs. I’ve seen people call her things I won’t repeat from this stage."

His fingers flexed against the podium.

"I’ve seen people count the men in her photographs as though a woman’s worth can be measured by how many men she’s ever stood beside."

He looked directly at the press. "You don’t know her."

The words were quiet.

"You don’t know the woman you’re talking about."

A beat.

"I do." He let that sit between them. "And let me tell you who she is."