The Manhattan skyline blurred behind a haze of late afternoon drizzle as Ariana Blake stood stiffly at the edge of the sidewalk, the hood of her trench coat pulled low over her forehead. Paparazzi clustered across the street, their cameras pointed at her like weapons, flashes piercing the grey mist. Their shouts were muffled by the hum of traffic and the pounding in her ears.
"Ariana! Did you lie to Leonardo Cross?"
"Is it true you seduced him for fame?"
"What about the leaked photos?"
Every question was a bullet, every flash a wound. Her fingers trembled around the strap of her bag as she faced the old apartment building—her former life in bricks and peeling paint. She hadn't been back here since she moved into Leo's penthouse. But after what had come out in the press this morning, she had to retrieve the last pieces of herself—her sketchbooks, her mother's worn-out cookbook, the ceramic giraffe from her first design project.
Only, she hadn't expected this.
Inside the apartment lobby, she could barely breathe. The cheap fluorescents buzzed above her, casting everything in sickly light. Her sneakers squeaked against the cracked linoleum as she rushed to the elevator. Each ding of the ascending floors made her stomach twist tighter.
Ariana Blake, 27, interior designer, New Jersey-raised and Brooklyn-battered, had survived a lot in the last few years—bad clients, worse boyfriends, and one endless drought of freelance gigs. But this… this was humiliation with teeth.
Her heart thudded as she entered her apartment. It smelled faintly of dust and lavender, the air stale with abandonment. The walls were still painted that soft, sage green she chose on a whim two years ago. Her tiny loveseat still sat by the window, the thrift-store coffee table in front of it chipped at the corners. A life she'd tried so hard to build—quietly, humbly.
And now the world thought she was a gold-digging liar.
The photos Leo's ex had leaked—images from Ariana's past relationship, taken out of context—were splashed across every tabloid. Captions twisted the narrative until she looked like a scheming social climber. Screenshots of old text exchanges from when she was desperate and broke painted her as manipulative.
No one had cared to ask for the full story.
Ariana dropped her bag and crouched to open a drawer beneath the bookshelf. Her sketchbooks. She pulled them out one by one, fingers brushing over the pencil strokes. Pages filled with lines and dreams. These were hers. Untouched by scandal.
But the tears still came.
She hadn't cried in weeks—not since she signed Leo's contract and stepped into the glittering hell of pretending to be someone she wasn't. But here, in the dim quiet of her tiny old apartment, Ariana broke.
She sank to the floor, legs folded under her, and sobbed.
It wasn't just the betrayal. It was the loss of control. The exposure. The way the world had weaponized her past against her.
Her phone buzzed. Again. And again.
Her best friend, her former landlord, even her old design professor. All trying to reach her. Some out of concern. Some probably just looking for gossip. She threw the phone aside, not bothering to look.
She buried her face in her hands and tried to breathe, but the pressure in her chest wouldn't release. She felt cracked open—raw and ashamed.
Then a familiar voice cut through the fog.
"Ariana."
She flinched. Whipped around.
Leo stood in the doorway, rain misting off his dark trench coat. His storm-gray eyes were unreadable, his expression taut. At thirty-three, Leonardo Maddox Cross was a fortress of steel and stone, his six-foot-three frame looming in the small room, his tailored suit a jarring contrast to the peeling wallpaper.
"What—how did you—"
"You weren't answering."
His voice was low, even, but his eyes flicked to the sketchbooks, the tears on her cheeks, the way her hands shook in her lap. Something flickered in him.
Ariana scrambled to her feet, wiping at her face. "You shouldn't be here. You should be at your perfect penthouse. With your press team. Spinning this."
He didn't move. Didn't blink. "You're coming with me."
She let out a harsh laugh. "To parade me in front of cameras again? Tell the world I'm just a project you're protecting out of charity?"
"No," he said, quieter. "To get you out of this place. Before you drown in it."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to scream. But the truth was, she was barely holding it together.
Still, pride flared. "I can handle my own humiliation."
Leo stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The rain tapped against the windows like fingers.
"You shouldn't have to. Not alone."
Something in his tone—a crack in the usual ice—cut through her defenses.
She looked at him. Really looked. His jaw was tight, but there was exhaustion beneath his eyes. His black hair was damp and tousled from the rain, giving him a strangely human softness. This was not the unshakable trillionaire the world knew. This was the man who'd made her soup when she was sick. The one who stayed up reading design books so he could understand her work.
And yet… he hadn't told her about the sabotage. About the investor who framed her.
She grabbed her sketchbooks and shoved them into her bag, her movements clipped. "Fine. Let's go. Before someone else gets another picture of me crying."
Leo said nothing, only opened the door and stepped aside.
Outside, the paparazzi surged again. Leo wrapped an arm around her shoulders—not possessive, not rehearsed, just steady. A shield.
A black SUV waited at the curb, windows tinted, engine humming. As soon as the doors shut behind them, silence fell.
Ariana stared ahead, refusing to meet his gaze.
"You should've told me," she said finally. Her voice was low, brittle. "About the investor. About your ex. About all of it."
Leo sat still, hands clasped loosely. "I was trying to protect you."
"By letting me walk into a storm blind?"
His jaw worked, but he didn't answer. Not right away.
"I don't do emotion well," he admitted at last. "But I'm learning. And I know I failed you today."
Her eyes burned again. She blinked furiously. "I didn't sign up for this. Not the cameras. Not the lies. And definitely not the humiliation."
"I know."
She turned to him, voice breaking. "Then why keep me in this? Why keep pretending?"
Leo's eyes locked on hers. Unflinching. "Because I stopped pretending the day I realized losing you scared me more than losing the merger."
Ariana stared.
The words weren't grand. Weren't wrapped in poetry. But they were real.
And they undid her.
She looked away quickly, fists clenched in her lap.
"I need time," she whispered.
Leo gave a slow nod. "You'll have it."
They rode the rest of the way in silence. But it wasn't cold anymore. Just quiet. And heavy with things unsaid.
As the SUV turned toward the penthouse, Ariana leaned her forehead against the window, eyes slipping closed.
For the first time in days, the tears didn't come.
Not because the pain was gone.
But because maybe—just maybe—she wasn't facing it alone anymore.