Chapter Twenty-One: The Cost of a Name
The city unfurled around us from the tinted windows of the sedan, a glittering tapestry of power and pretense. Adrian held my hand, his thumb tracing idle circles on my palm as he pointed out landmarks—the art museum his mother chaired, the private club his father rarely frequented but still paid dues to, the old theatre where he'd seen his first opera and been bored to tears. It was a tour of a life lived in gold leaf and marble, and I listened, trying to map this world onto the boy who loved worn book spines and quiet gardens.
The security detail was a low, discreet hum—a driver with a military bearing and a second car trailing us at a respectful distance. Adrian seemed to tune it out, a white noise he'd lived with since birth, but the presence of it was a cold stone in my stomach. It was a tangible reminder: the name 'Madden' was not just legacy. It was a target.
The bookstore was a sanctuary, smelling of old paper and peace. Adrian lingered by the political theory section, a wry smile on his face as he pulled out a hefty critique of neoliberal economic policy. "Required reading in this family," he murmured, showing me the author—a frequent guest at his parents' dinner parties. I drifted toward fiction, losing myself in the familiar comfort of stories.
It was as we were leaving, my new book tucked under my arm, that the world shifted. We stepped onto the sun-drenched sidewalk, and a figure detached itself from the shadow of a newsstand.
"Mr. Madden! Adrian! A moment for the Herald?"
The man was young, sharp-suited, with the hungry eyes of a climber. He held a recorder, not a camera, but his stance was aggressive, blocking our path to the car. Our driver moved subtly, a hand going to his earpiece.
Adrian's posture changed instantly. The relaxed husband vanished, replaced by the cool, impenetrable heir. He kept his arm around me, pulling me slightly behind him, not to hide me, but to shield me from the direct line of the man's advance. "No comment," he said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth I knew.
"Just a quick question about the wedding! Sources say it's a rushed affair to quell the scandal—any truth to that? And the bride—Miss Rossi, is it? Any comment on the rumors your family paid off certain university officials to secure your scholarship?"
The words were darts, aimed with precision. The air left my lungs. Paid off? The insult to my work, to my mother's sacrifices, was so vulgar it felt surreal.
Adrian's hand tightened on my shoulder. I could feel the rage vibrating through him, held in check by an iron will. "You have your facts wrong," he said, each word a chip of ice. "Step aside."
"Your father's pushing the new Education Accountability Act—interesting timing, don't you think, with a scholarship student suddenly in the family? A nice human interest story to soften his image?"
That was it. Adrian took a half-step forward, his body a rigid wall of menace. The reporter, for all his bravado, flinched. "The next word you speak about my wife," Adrian said, his voice so low it was almost a growl, "and I will have you in court so fast your head will spin. Now. Get. Out. Of my. Way."
It wasn't a shout. It was infinitely more frightening. The reporter paled, mumbled something, and melted back into the foot traffic. Adrian guided me into the waiting car, his face a mask of stormy calm.
Inside, the silence was thick. He stared out the window, jaw clenched. I placed a hand on his arm. "Adrian."
He exhaled, a harsh sound, and turned to me. The fury in his eyes slowly banked, replaced by a weary, profound regret. "I'm sorry. You should never have to hear that filth."
"Is it… is that what they all think?" My voice was small. The scholarship was my pride, my lifeline. To have it twisted into something sordid…
"It's what they'll say if it's useful," he said, bitterness seeping into his tone. "It's not about truth. It's about angles. Pressure points. My father has enemies. Powerful ones. They can't always touch him directly, so they go for the edges. For Lucia. For me." His gaze locked on mine, dark and serious. "And now, for you."
---
Dinner that night was a different beast than breakfast. The morning room's sunlit calm was gone, replaced by the formal dining room's imposing grandeur. William was already seated, a file folder beside his plate instead of a tablet. The air felt charged, like before a thunderstorm.
We took our seats. Maria tried to maintain a veneer of normalcy, asking about the bookstore, but her smiles were tight.
Halfway through the soup course, William set his spoon down with a precise click. "The incident with the Herald reporter today." It wasn't a question.
Adrian nodded. "Handled."
"Barely," William said, his voice devoid of its earlier breakfast approval. He looked at me, not unkindly, but with the dispassionate assessment of a general surveying a new battlefield. "Arisha. You must understand. The man who approached you was not acting alone. He is a tool of Silas Thorne."
The name meant nothing to me, but Adrian stiffened beside me. Lucia put her fork down.
"Thorne owns the Herald and three major telecoms," William continued, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. "He is also the primary backer of the Opposition's 'Clean Governance' campaign. He has been trying to block my Accountability Act for months. It would regulate the very media monopolies and private education contractors he profits from." He spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather. "He cannot attack the policy's merits effectively, so he attacks the man. And the man's family. A son's 'hasty marriage to a controversial figure' is a gift to him. Your scholarship, Arisha, is not a vulnerability for you. It is a weapon for them."
The cold stone in my stomach turned to ice. I was a weapon. My hard-won achievement, a cudgel to be used against the man who was now my father-in-law.
"We have proof," Richard Madden said quietly from his end of the table. He'd been so silent I'd almost forgotten him. "Of Thorne's financial ties to the university's endowment board. Of the reporter's direct orders to dig for dirt on you, specifically. We can sue. We can ruin him."
William shook his head. "And in doing so, we make it the story. 'Prime Minister Crushes Critic.' 'Maddens Use Legal Might to Silence Questions.'" He looked at me again. "This is the dark side of the chair I sit in, Arisha. Every action has a counter-action. Every defense can be framed as an aggression. Honesty is not the best policy. It is merely one tool, and often the most dangerous one to wield."
"So what do we do?" Adrian's voice was tight. "Let them smear her? Smear us?"
"We control the narrative," William said. "We are already doing it. The wedding. Large, public, traditional. A celebration of family and commitment, not a scandal. We highlight Arisha's academic achievements—legitimately. We invite the heads of the scholarship foundations. We show a united front." His eyes were like flint. "Thorne deals in shadows and whispers. We will fight him with blinding light and impeccable facts. It is slower. It is less satisfying than destroying him. But it is how you win a war without becoming a tyrant in the process."
He turned his gaze fully to me. "This will require strength from you, Arisha. More than you knew you had. You will be scrutinized. Your past, your mother, your father's business—it will all be unearthed. Not by us. By them. We cannot stop it. We can only be ready. And we can only ask you to stand beside us, unwavering, in the light."
The weight of his words pressed down on me. This was the cost. The other side of the grand house, the beautiful clothes, the powerful name. It was a life lived on a stage, with enemies in the wings waiting for you to miss a step.
I looked at Adrian. His hand found mine under the table, gripping it fiercely. His eyes held a silent apology, a shared fury, and a question. Are you with me?
I thought of my mother's terrified face, of the reporter's sneer, of my father's honest eyes in the photograph. I thought of the secret garden of our marriage, so new and tender. I thought of William, who fought with facts instead of fists, who carried his honesty like a shield, even when it was heavy.
"I understand," I said, my voice clear in the hushed room. I looked at William, meeting his flint with my own newfound steel. "I have nothing to hide. And I have everything to protect." I glanced at Adrian. "We do."
A flicker of something—respect, perhaps—crossed William's stern features. He gave a single, slow nod. "Good."
Maria reached over and gently patted my hand, her eyes soft with a sympathy that knew the depth of the road ahead. "We will help you. Every step."
Later, in the sanctuary of our room, the darkness felt closer. Adrian paced like a caged panther. "I should have broken his nose," he muttered, fury simmering.
"And given him the headline he wanted?" I said, standing by the window, looking out at the secured grounds. "Your father is right."
"My father deals in chess moves while they throw mud!" He stopped, running a hand through his hair. "I can't stand it. I can't stand them touching you. Even with words."
I went to him, placing my hands on his chest, feeling the angry beat of his heart. "They only have words, Adrian. Because we have the truth. And we have each other." I thought of the shower, his hands washing away the world. "You are my shelter. But I am not made of glass. I am the daughter of Elias and Jiyana Rossi. I am not afraid of a fight."
He pulled me into his arms, burying his face in my hair. "I am," he whispered, raw and vulnerable. "For you, I am terrified."
That night, I didn't dream of bookstores or gardens. I dreamed of standing on a bright, windy hill under a blazing sun, holding Adrian's hand. Below us, in the shadows of the valley, faceless figures whispered and pointed. But we stood in the light, and we did not look down. We were the target, yes. But we were also the beacon. And beacons, by their very nature, are made to withstand the dark.