The tabloids struck three days later.
"Whitmore's Wild Romance: Forbidden Affair with Ex-Nephew?"
It was all over social media. Photos from the gala—Vanessa's hand on Ethan's chest, the closeness of their bodies, the unmistakable heat in their eyes. The article blurred the lines, dropped just enough clues to ignite whispers, but didn't spell it out entirely.
Still, it was enough.
Vanessa's phone lit up with dozens of missed calls—investors, friends, the press.
"Do you want me to go?" Ethan asked her, voice tight, as they sat in her private lounge while the world outside exploded with speculation.
She didn't look at him for a long time.
"I want you to stay," she said finally, softly. "But I also want to protect you."
"I'm not afraid."
"I am," she admitted, surprising even herself. "Not for me. For you. They'll eat you alive."
He moved closer, cupping her face. "Let them try."
---
The fallout came fast.
Contracts were paused. Shareholders demanded statements. Vanessa refused to give them one.
Her silence was interpreted as guilt.
Ethan could see the strain beneath her polished mask—her late nights, her clenched jaw, the fire in her eyes when she read the headlines. Yet she didn't break.
Not publicly.
But at night, in bed with him, she came undone.
"I spent my whole life building something untouchable," she whispered once. "Then you touched it."
"Does that scare you?"
"Yes," she said. "And I don't care anymore."
---
On the rooftop of her building, they shared quiet moments—away from the flashing lights and judgment.
"I used to think love made you weak," she said one night, wrapped in his arms beneath the stars.
"It doesn't," he replied. "It just shows you where your armor is cracked."
She smiled faintly. "You cracked all of mine."
"And what did you find underneath?"
Vanessa looked at him, her eyes warm for the first time without caution.
"A woman who forgot what it meant to feel alive."