The morning came too bright.
Too quiet.
Too deceptive.
Elena sat at her desk, typing out a report she'd already rewritten twice. Her fingers moved mechanically across the keyboard, but her mind was somewhere else—trapped between the memory of Adrian's voice and the ghost of his nearness.
"If I ever make you uncomfortable, tell me."
"Haven't I?"
Those words had looped in her head all night, replaying until dawn bled through her window.
And now, sitting outside his office, she could feel him even through the closed door.
The weight of his presence. The quiet storm behind that glass wall.
Every now and then, she'd hear his voice through the intercom—low, commanding, effortlessly in control. It shouldn't affect her the way it did. It was ridiculous. She was supposed to be over it, to move on and keep things professional.
But her pulse still jumped every time he said her name.
"Elena," came that voice now.
Her fingers froze.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwell?"
"Come in."
Her heart gave a traitorous flutter.
She straightened her skirt, squared her shoulders, and entered.
Adrian was standing near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, the morning sun cutting along the lines of his shoulders. His tie hung loose around his neck like he'd been too distracted—or too angry—to fix it.
He didn't look up immediately. His jaw was tight, his eyes on the skyline.
"You needed me, sir?" she asked carefully.
He turned at last, and something in his gaze made her chest tighten.
There was something different about him this morning. Controlled, yes—but barely. Like a storm pressed behind glass.
"Sit," he said quietly.
She obeyed, perching on the chair across from his desk, her heart hammering faster than it should have.
"Claudia called this morning."
Her stomach dropped. "What did she—"
"She's trying to push a story through one of her contacts at Business Now. Claims the gala kiss was an act. That our marriage is falling apart."
Elena blinked, struggling to breathe evenly. "Can she do that?"
Adrian's mouth twisted. "She can try."
He turned the screen toward her. Headlines already flashing:
'Power Couple or Publicity Stunt? Inside the Blackwell Marriage Scandal.'
Her hands clenched. "That's not true."
"Of course it's not true," Adrian said, voice sharp. "But truth doesn't matter to them. They care about spectacle."
He leaned back, gaze narrowing. "I told you Claudia would play dirty. I underestimated how fast she'd move."
Elena's pulse raced. "What do we do?"
His eyes lifted to hers—cold calculation mixed with something deeper, something more dangerous.
"We fight back."
"How?"
He paused. "By giving them something else to talk about."
Her brow furrowed. "I don't understand."
Adrian's voice dropped, slow and deliberate. "If they think our marriage is fake, we'll make them choke on it."
Elena blinked, trying to process his words. "You mean—"
"We're going public."
"Public?!" she repeated, stunned.
He rose from behind the desk, coming closer, his steps measured, predatory. "An interview. Photos. Appearances. Everything that screams unbreakable couple."
Her pulse spiked. "That's insane. We can't—"
"We can." His tone was quiet, but it carried that unyielding authority she'd come to dread—and crave. "And we will."
Elena stood too, her chair scraping the floor. "Adrian, I can't keep pretending like this."
His gaze darkened. "You think I enjoy it?"
"Then why do it?"
He stopped in front of her, his breath ghosting against her forehead. "Because this—" he gestured between them "—is the only thing standing between me and the wolves who want to tear this company apart."
Her voice wavered. "And what about me?"
For a heartbeat, he said nothing. Then, softly, "You're the only thing they can't have."
Her breath caught. "That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair," he murmured, and she could swear she saw a flicker of regret in his eyes.
Before she could answer, a knock broke the tension.
"Mr. Blackwell?"
It was Naomi, one of the assistants. "The board is waiting. You're five minutes past start."
Adrian didn't move his eyes from Elena. "Tell them I'll be right there."
"Yes, sir."
When the door closed again, the silence was deafening.
He stepped back slightly, collecting himself. The CEO mask slid back on—cold, unreadable. "Come with me."
"What? No—Adrian, the board—"
"You're my wife. You're coming."
Her stomach turned. "They'll—"
"They already talk."
He was right. They all whispered—about her, about him, about the impossible marriage no one understood.
Still, following him into that meeting felt like stepping into fire.
The boardroom was a glass arena, twenty feet of polished marble and money. Every man inside wore a suit worth a month of her rent, every woman carried a portfolio and a smile sharpened into a blade.
As they entered, the room hushed.
Adrian's presence alone commanded silence, but today… it was Elena who drew the stares.
Whispers rippled.
"She's here?"
"Since when does he bring her to board meetings?"
"She's not even supposed to be in the room."
Elena wanted to sink into the floor.
Adrian didn't even glance at the murmuring directors. He simply placed a hand on her back, guiding her toward the seat beside him—right next to the head of the table.
A gesture that said, She belongs here.
Whispers turned into shock. Claudia, sitting two seats down, froze mid-sip of her coffee. Her perfect red lips curved into a brittle smile.
"Well," Claudia purred, "what a surprise. The lovely Mrs. Blackwell joins us today. How… refreshing."
Elena forced a polite smile. "Thank you for the warm welcome."
Adrian's fingers brushed the back of her chair—a silent warning. Stay calm.
The meeting began. Numbers, projections, acquisitions—words that blurred into background noise. Adrian spoke with precision, his confidence slicing through the tension like a scalpel.
Elena sat still, pretending to take notes, though every nerve in her body was hyperaware of him beside her. His voice, his scent, the subtle flex of his jaw whenever Claudia spoke.
Then Claudia leaned forward, her tone sweet as poison.
"Adrian," she said smoothly, "since we're being so… transparent these days, perhaps we should address the elephant in the room."
Adrian's pen stilled. "Which is?"
She smiled like a cat. "The article. Surely you've seen it. The one suggesting your marriage is a PR maneuver?"
The room went dead silent.
Elena's stomach dropped.
Adrian looked up slowly. "And what do you suggest I do, Claudia? Publish my wedding certificate in tomorrow's paper?"
"Of course not," she said innocently. "I just think the company's image could be better protected if we had clarity. After all…" Her eyes slid toward Elena. "Rumors spread fast when people start thinking the CEO's personal life is—how should I put it?—manufactured."
The implication hit hard.
Elena's cheeks burned.
Adrian's eyes narrowed, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees.
"Careful," he said quietly.
Claudia leaned back, feigning innocence. "I'm only thinking of the company, Adrian. You've always said image matters."
Adrian smiled—but it wasn't kind. It was a warning dressed as charm.
"You're right," he said smoothly. "Image does matter."
Then he turned his head—slowly, deliberately—toward Elena.
And before she could even process what was happening, he reached for her hand.
Fingers sliding between hers. Firm. Possessive.
The entire room went silent again.
Adrian's voice, when he spoke, was deceptively calm. "That's why I make sure mine is flawless."
He gave Elena's hand a small, deliberate squeeze. "My wife is not a rumor. She's a fact."
The words landed like a thunderclap.
For a moment, no one breathed. Then a few murmured in awkward approval.
Claudia's smile didn't falter, but her knuckles went white around her pen.
Adrian didn't look at her again. He just held Elena's hand a little longer than necessary, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist in a subtle, deliberate motion that made her entire body light up.
When the meeting finally ended, Elena could barely stand. Her legs trembled as she gathered her files.
Adrian didn't release her hand until they were halfway down the hall.
Then, finally, he stopped.
"Why did you do that?" she whispered.
He turned, his face unreadable. "Because she was trying to humiliate you."
"I can handle myself."
"Not with her." His tone was sharp, protective, something darker bleeding through.
"You didn't need to make it worse," she snapped.
His eyes flared. "Worse?"
"Yes. Now the entire board thinks—"
"They already thought it."
His voice rose slightly—not loud, but enough to make her breath catch.
"They think I'm sleeping with you. They think I married you for control, for headlines, for God knows what. And maybe I did, Elena. Maybe that's what this started as. But I'll be damned if I let them treat you like a pawn in their little game."
Her chest heaved. "You don't get to play savior after you built the cage."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "You think I don't know that?"
Their eyes locked—fire meeting ice.
Then the elevator door opened beside them with a soft chime.
Neither of them moved.
It was like the air itself was holding its breath.