The office felt like a living thing. A predator.
Everywhere I turned, whispers slithered through the corridors, brushing against my skin like claws. Eyes followed me—sharp, dissecting, searching for cracks in the mask I barely held together.
The headlines had already spread across every screen, every phone.
ELENA VARGAS: GOLD-DIGGER OR VICTIM? THE SECRETARY WHO SNARED THE CEO.
MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE? ADRIAN KINGDOM UNDER FIRE.
Each word was a wound. Each article twisted me into something unrecognizable.
When I reached my desk, someone had left a tabloid on top of my keyboard. My photo—me leaving the courthouse after my father's bankruptcy hearing—splashed across the front. The caption screamed:
FROM BANKRUPTCY TO BILLIONS: WHO IS ELENA KING REALLY?
My hands shook as I shoved it into the trash. My chest heaved, and for a moment, I wanted to scream. To rip the entire building apart just to silence them.
Instead, I sat. Opened my laptop. Forced myself to breathe.
But the whispers didn't stop.
"Can you believe it? She trapped him."
"More like he bought her."
"She won't last. Women like that never do."
The words sank claws into me until—
"Elena."
His voice cut through the noise like a blade.
I turned. Adrian stood in the hallway, framed by sunlight spilling through the glass walls. Immaculate in his charcoal suit, storm-gray eyes unreadable.
"Inside," he said. Not a request.
Every gaze followed as I rose. The walk to his office felt like crossing a battlefield, the air heavy with speculation.
When the door clicked shut behind me, silence crashed over us.
He stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone loosely. A predator at rest.
"You've seen it," he said.
"Of course I've seen it," I snapped before I could stop myself. "It's everywhere."
His head tilted slightly at my tone, as if amused by my spark in the middle of the fire. "Good. Then you understand the situation."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Do I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the whole world thinks I'm a whore who married her boss for money."
His gaze sharpened. "Is that what you think?"
My throat tightened. "Don't twist this. You put me in this position. You forced me into this circus."
Adrian crossed the space between us with deliberate steps. "And yet, you held your own yesterday. You made them listen. You made Claudia bleed."
"This isn't a game," I hissed, my back hitting his desk. "This is my life."
He leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of me, caging me in. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "Your life, Elena, is tied to mine now. Every scandal, every whisper—they'll drag you down unless you learn how to rise above it."
My pulse thundered. His nearness burned, too close, too intoxicating.
"And how exactly am I supposed to do that?" I whispered.
His lips curved in a slow, devastating smile. "By becoming untouchable."
The silence stretched, hot and suffocating. His breath brushed my cheek, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that made the world outside vanish.
My hands trembled, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer.
I chose neither. I forced myself to look away, breaking the spell. "I don't want to play your games."
His smile faded, but his voice was steady. "You already are."
Before I could answer, his phone buzzed sharply. He straightened, checked the screen, then cursed under his breath.
"What is it?"
His jaw tightened. "The board is demanding a statement. They want blood."
A chill spread through me. "Yours or mine?"
He looked at me then, eyes storm-dark. "Both, if I let them."
My stomach dropped. "So what do we do?"
He turned, already dialing a number. His command returned, sharp and cold. "We give them a show. Tonight, you're coming with me to the gala."
I froze. "The gala? The one with every shareholder, every reporter—"
"Yes." His gaze cut back to me. "You'll walk in on my arm. You'll smile. And you'll remind them that you are my wife."
My breath caught. "You can't be serious."
"I've never been more serious."
I shook my head. "You're throwing me to the wolves."
"No." He stepped closer again, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "I'm teaching you how to hunt."
The air between us crackled. My heart raced with equal parts fear and fury.
Because some twisted, dangerous part of me believed him.
And that terrified me most of all.
The car ride to the gala felt like sitting on the edge of a guillotine.
Adrian sat beside me, his presence as sharp as the scent of his cologne, one hand resting casually on his knee, the other scrolling through messages with unnerving calm. Meanwhile, my pulse hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The black-tinted windows reflected my pale face back at me, every doubt and fear laid bare.
"I don't belong here," I muttered before I could stop myself.
His eyes flicked to me, assessing. "That's exactly why you will."
I frowned. "That doesn't even make sense."
His lips curved slightly, but it wasn't amusement. It was something sharper. "The ones who think they don't belong often end up owning the room. Because no one expects it."
I turned away, unwilling to let him see how much his words shook me.
The limousine slowed, the flash of cameras already lighting up the street outside. Reporters crowded behind barriers, their voices rising in a chaotic tide.
"Mr. King! Mr. King! Over here!"
"Is it true your marriage is a cover-up?"
"Elena! How much did he pay you?"
My stomach twisted.
Adrian's hand found mine, firm and commanding. I jolted, staring at our entwined fingers.
"Breathe," he said simply, then the door opened.
The roar of voices crashed over me, blinding lights flashing like lightning. Adrian stepped out first, tall and unshakable, the embodiment of control. When he turned, offering his hand, it was like a scene from a movie.
For a moment, I hesitated. Then I placed my hand in his.
And the world erupted.
Cameras exploded in white fire. Questions hurled like daggers. But Adrian didn't falter—he led me forward with unrelenting authority, every step measured, every movement deliberate.
I tried to mimic his composure, though my insides churned. I lifted my chin, fixed a neutral smile on my lips, and forced myself not to flinch when the reporters shouted:
"Elena! Did you marry for money?"
"Are you pregnant—is that why?"
"Claudia Harrington said—"
I froze. Claudia.
And there she was.
At the top of the stairs, framed by glittering chandeliers, stood Claudia Harrington in a blood-red gown that clung to her like armor. Her smile was a blade, cutting through the crowd as she descended.
"Adrian," she purred when she reached us, ignoring me entirely. "You didn't tell me you'd be bringing… company."
Her gaze slid to me, dripping venom. "Oh, forgive me. Wife."
The word dripped with mockery.
Adrian's hand tightened slightly on mine. "Claudia." His tone was flat steel. "You remember Elena."
Claudia's smile widened, as if she'd won some silent game. "Of course. How could I forget?" She leaned close, her perfume suffocating. "You've certainly… upgraded."
Heat burned my chest, anger sparking. But before I could reply, Adrian's voice cut through.
"Watch your step, Claudia," he said, soft enough that only we could hear. "You're playing a dangerous game."
Her eyes flashed, but she recovered instantly, slipping past us with a laugh that carried across the hall. "Oh, darling. I invented the game."
I exhaled shakily, every nerve on edge.
Adrian guided me into the ballroom—a glittering expanse of chandeliers, polished marble, and too many eyes watching us. Music swelled from the string quartet in the corner, but the real performance was unfolding among the crowd.
Everywhere, I felt the weight of their stares. Measuring me. Judging me. Whispering.
I wanted to disappear.
Then Adrian leaned close, his breath brushing my ear. "Smile."
I forced my lips into a curve, though my jaw ached from the effort.
We made our way through the throng, Adrian shaking hands with shareholders, politicians, people whose names I only vaguely recognized. Each one smiled at him, then glanced at me with thinly veiled curiosity—or outright disdain.
"She's so young."
"Pretty enough. But is she clever?"
"His father would never have approved."
The words stabbed, even when whispered.
I was about to excuse myself, to flee, when it happened.
A reporter, bolder than the rest, broke through the crowd, microphone in hand. "Mrs. King! Elena!"
I stiffened as the camera turned on me.
"Do you feel pressured, stepping into Claudia Harrington's shoes? Many believe she was Adrian's true partner—professionally and otherwise. Do you worry you'll never measure up?"
The ballroom fell silent.
All eyes on me. Waiting for me to break.
Adrian turned toward the man, his jaw taut, but before he could speak—I did.
I lifted my chin, met the camera's gaze, and forced steel into my voice.
"I don't need to measure up to anyone," I said. "I'm not Claudia. I'm Elena. And Adrian didn't marry a shadow—he married me."
Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers buzzed like hornets.
For a second, I thought I'd gone too far.
But then Adrian's hand slid around my waist, pulling me closer, his lips curving in a slow, deliberate smile. "Exactly," he said, his voice carrying through the silence.
And before I could process it, he bent his head—
—and kissed me.
The world exploded. Cameras flashed, people murmured, Claudia's face went pale across the room.
The kiss was possessive, deliberate, a declaration to the world. But underneath it was something else—heat, fire, a spark that seared through my veins and left me trembling.
When he finally pulled back, my lips tingled, my breath caught.
He looked at me then, eyes burning with something dangerous. Something I couldn't name.
The ballroom erupted in applause, cameras capturing every angle, the narrative rewritten in real time.
Adrian had turned the scandal into a love story.
And I—I was caught in it, drowning, burning, unable to tell where the lie ended and the truth began.