The morning did not begin with sunlight. It began with fire.
Elise woke to her phone vibrating violently against the nightstand, a cascade of notifications flooding the screen. She groaned, rolling over to check, but her blood froze when she saw the headlines splashed across every newsfeed.
"Elise Dubois: Vincent Moreau's Bride or Secret Betrayer?"
"Leaked Photos Suggest Affair Before Marriage."
"The Contract Bride: How Elise Duped the Moreau Empire."
Her hands trembled as she scrolled, each headline more venomous than the last. Grainy photographs of her leaving a café, her hand brushing against a male colleague's arm, were framed as proof of infidelity. Cropped images, twisted narratives, innuendos sharpened into knives.
The world had decided she was guilty.
"Elise!" Her assistant, Clara, burst into the room, face pale. "It's everywhere. Social media, the news, the finance blogs—"
"I see it," Elise whispered, voice hoarse. Her chest felt tight, as if the words themselves had shackled her.
Clara wrung her hands. "What do we do?"
Before Elise could respond, the door opened. Vincent stood there, immaculate in his black suit, his expression carved from stone.
"Leave us," he ordered Clara. His voice was quiet, but laced with such authority that Clara fled without argument.
Silence fell. Elise gripped the phone until her knuckles whitened. "You think I—"
"Not here." Vincent's eyes burned with cold fury. "Get dressed. We have a press conference in two hours."
---
The ride to the Moreau Tower was suffocating. Elise sat rigid in the back seat, the tinted windows shielding them from the swarm of paparazzi that had gathered outside her apartment. Their shouts still penetrated the glass: accusations, insults, questions flung like stones.
Vincent scrolled through his tablet, his face unreadable. Finally, Elise broke.
"You don't believe this, do you?" Her voice cracked.
He didn't look up. "Belief is irrelevant. Perception is what matters."
Elise recoiled. "So that's it? You won't even ask me?"
His eyes lifted, dark and sharp. "Do you need me to ask? You wouldn't be foolish enough to betray me so soon."
The words were meant to reassure, but his tone was void of warmth. Elise realized with a chill that in his world, loyalty was assumed only as strategy.
"Then why—"
"Because weakness, Elise, is fatal," Vincent cut her off. "They want you rattled. They want me distracted. Whoever orchestrated this knows that attacking you is the fastest way to strike at me."
Her anger rose, scorching her fear. "So I'm just a pawn in your empire war?"
"You've always been a piece on the board," he said calmly, "but how you play will determine if you survive."
---
The press conference hall was already swarming when they arrived. Journalists clustered like vultures, microphones thrust forward, cameras flashing in relentless bursts. The air smelled of sweat, ink, and bloodlust.
Vincent guided Elise to the podium, his hand on hers—firm, possessive, a display of solidarity that felt like a chain. His voice when he addressed the crowd was smooth steel.
"These accusations are fabricated. My wife," he said, the word deliberate and heavy, "is loyal, intelligent, and beyond reproach. The Moreau family will not tolerate slander against her name or mine."
The room crackled.
Elise stood beside him, heart pounding. The script Clara had prepared trembled in her hand, but Elise didn't read it. Instead, she looked out over the sea of eyes and found her own voice.
"I will not deny that I have a past," she said, surprising even Vincent. "I was not born into power. I worked. I fought. I bled to stand where I stand today. If a smile at a colleague, or a photograph taken without consent, is enough to condemn me—then let them condemn. I know the truth. Vincent knows the truth. And the truth does not bend to gossip."
The hall erupted—shouts, camera flashes, questions hurled like arrows. But beneath the chaos, a current shifted. Some saw her as prey. Others, suddenly, saw her as fire.
Vincent's hand tightened around hers—not in warning, but in something dangerously close to respect.
---
Backstage, away from the flood of cameras, Vincent rounded on her. "That was reckless."
"It was honest." Elise tore her hand from his. "Maybe that's something you should try."
For a moment, his mask cracked. His gaze lingered on her, searching, as though she had just moved a piece he hadn't foreseen on his endless chessboard.
"You think honesty wins wars?" he asked softly.
"No," Elise replied, her chin high. "But it wins people. And without people, your empire is nothing."
Their eyes locked, the silence charged, dangerous. For the first time, Elise felt the ground tilt—not because of his dominance, but because she had forced him to see her not as a pawn, but as a player.
---
That night, Elise scrolled through the storm online. The hate was vicious, but threaded through it were sparks of support. Strangers defending her courage, praising her defiance, sharing her words.
She should have felt relief. Instead, her stomach knotted when she saw one particular comment, buried beneath the noise:
"Funny how she forgot to mention her university scandal. Dig deeper—there's more she's hiding."
Her blood ran cold.
She hadn't thought of that night in years. A mistake buried, sealed, a secret she thought no one could reach. If it surfaced, it wouldn't just tarnish her—it could destroy her entirely.
Her phone buzzed. A message.
Unknown Number: You can't outrun your past. See you soon.
Elise's hands shook. For the first time since stepping into Vincent's world, she felt true fear. Not of the empire, not of the cameras—but of the ghosts clawing their way back into her life.
---
Cliffhanger for Chapter 10
Elise realizes the scandal isn't random—it's targeted, personal, and tied to a dangerous secret from her past. As the attacks escalate, she and Vincent must decide whether to face the storm together or let it tear them apart.