The peace held for nine days.
It was a tense, watchful calm. Victor had his outpatient procedure. A small, raised line sat beneath his collarbone now.
A technological scar.
Elara traced it with her fingertip. "A guardian angel," she whispered.
"A circuit breaker," Victor corrected. But he covered her hand with his own.
The device was leverage against fate. It did not frighten him.
---
The attack came on the tenth day.
It was not physical. Not a syndicate enforcer or a corporate raid. It was subtler.
It targeted perception.
Marcus brought it to them at their morning briefing. His face was tight with anger. He placed a tablet on the table.
A gossip site headline glowed: Heir Apparent? Sterling Scion's Due Date Nears.
"Scroll down," Marcus said, his voice clipped.
Elara took the tablet. The article began with fawning details about their philanthropy. Then the tone shifted.
...questions linger about the timing. Sources note the pregnancy was announced mere weeks after the dissolution of Elara Whitethorn's previous entanglement with Lucian Knight. The swift transition has raised eyebrows...
"They're implying I hopped from Lucian's bed to yours," Elara said, her voice dangerously calm. "That Lara might not be yours."
Victor's scent spiked. Cold, dark ozone filled the room.
The bond transmitted a wave of pure, murderous rage. Elara flinched.
"It gets worse," Marcus said grimly. "Keep reading."
Elara scrolled.
...the well-documented instability of the Sterling genetic line complicates matters. With Victor Sterling's recent cardiac procedure, concerns arise about the viability of a Sterling heir. Could the child be a Whitethorn heir—a clever Omega's gambit?
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
They were attacking the child's legitimacy. They were weaponizing Victor's genetic truth.
Victor stood. He walked to the window, a silhouette of contained violence.
"Source."
"We're tracing it," Marcus said. "The site is a shell. Legally untouchable. But the phrasing knows about your procedure. It knows about the gene."
"Davison," Victor hissed. "A last, spiteful act from the grave."
"Or Vance from prison. The method is cowardly. The intent is to wound." Marcus sighed. "It's a ghost, Victor. You can't punch a rumor."
Elara placed the tablet face down. Her hands trembled with fury.
They were calling her child a bastard. Her a whore. Victor's heart a punchline.
"This is the 'stain' tactic again," she said, her voice like shaved ice. "They can't touch us legally. So they poison our story. They want Lara's birth to be a controversy."
Victor turned. His eyes were winter sky, devoid of warmth. "We sue. We bury them in discovery."
"And give the story oxygen for months? Drag our daughter's parentage through courts before she's born?" Elara shook her head. "No. That's what they want. We need a cleaner strike."
She stood, pacing, one hand on her belly.
"They're using two weapons: my past with Lucian, and your genetics. We have to disarm both. Publicly. Irrefutably."
"How?" Victor's single word was a challenge.
Elara stopped. She looked at him, strategic clarity in her gaze.
"We give them a show. But on our stage. We don't respond to the gossip site. We render it irrelevant."
---
The idea was audacious. It risked everything.
It required a vulnerability that went against Victor's every instinct.
It was perfect.
Forty-eight hours later, they stood backstage at the Sterling-Whitethorn Institute gala. Five hundred influential guests filled the ballroom. The media was controlled but heavy.
Elara was radiant in ivory silk. Victor was a king in black.
"You're sure?" he asked, his voice low.
"It's the only way to kill the ghost," Elara said, adjusting his bow tie. "We don't deny the rumor. We annihilate its foundation."
The evening proceeded normally. Speeches were made. Donations pledged.
Then Victor and Elara took the stage.
The applause was warm, edged with curiosity. Everyone had read the gossip.
Elara spoke first. She talked about the Institute's mission, about legacy.
Then she paused, her hand on her abdomen.
"This Institute is about legacy," she said, her tone shifting. "Not of bloodlines, but of action. Of choice. We are about to embark on the most profound legacy: parenthood."
She turned, inviting Victor closer. He stood beside her, a pillar of silent support.
"And like any new parents," she continued, a wry smile on her lips, "we've had unsolicited advice. Recently, that curiosity has turned to malicious fiction."
A pin-drop silence fell.
Victor took the microphone. His voice was a blade being drawn.
"There is a cowardice in attacking a woman's honor and an unborn child's legitimacy. It is the weapon of those who have lost every other battle. So, let us remove the weapon."
He nodded to Marcus.
The large screen behind them changed.
It showed two documents. A legal paternity affidavit. And a prenatal paternity test result: Probability of Paternity: 99.9999%.
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Victor spoke over it. "We did this not because we had doubt, but because we will allow none to be sown. Our daughter is my child. My heir. My blood. This is a fact. Let this end the whispering."
The display changed again. A simplified medical infographic. Familial Brugada Syndrome – A manageable cardiac condition.
Victor's voice was matter-of-fact. "The other lie concerns my health. I carry a genetic variant. It is not a secret. It is not a weakness."
He tapped the spot over his device. Every eye followed.
"This condition may have taken my father. It will not take me from my family. My daughter will be tested. If she has it, she will be protected. We do not hide from biology. We master it."
He handed the microphone back to Elara. The room was stunned.
Elara took it, her expression softening from steel to warmth.
"We share this not for your pity," she said. "We share it for clarity. This—" she gestured between them, then to her belly, "—is built on truth. On choice. On a bond that is a partnership."
She looked directly into the main camera.
"To those who peddle in shadows and whispers: you are obsolete. The future is being built right here, in the light. And it has no place for you."
She ended with a regal nod.
The applause erupted. It was thunderous, cathartic. They had redefined the rules of engagement.
They had turned vulnerability into unassailable strength.
---
Backstage, Elara's knees buckled. Victor caught her, guiding her to a chair.
"I'm okay," she breathed. "Just adrenaline."
Victor knelt before her. "You were magnificent."
A hysterical laugh bubbled from her. "My gods, Victor. We just showed our paternity test and your EKG to the entire city."
A fierce, wild grin touched his lips. "We did. And we won."
Jax appeared, his expression grim.
"We have the source. The 'anonymous family friend.' It's not Davison or Vance."
"Who?" Victor's grin vanished.
"Miles Brenner."
The name was a punch to the gut. The sniveling Beta who had delivered the dictaphone tape. The Legacy Fund functionary.
"He's a clerk," Victor said, disgusted. "Why?"
"Revenge for the Fund's dissolution. He lost his prestige. He knew the medical details from old files. He knew about Lucian. He thought he could hurt you with a keyboard." Jax's lip curled. "He's a ghost who thinks he's a player."
"Where is he?"
"Packing a suitcase. He thinks he's clever. He's not."
Victor stood. The cold rage focused into a laser point. "Bring him to me."
---
They used a secure room in the Institute's basement. Miles Brenner was a small man shrinking by the second. He smelled of stale sweat and fear.
Victor stood over him, not touching him.
"You tried to stain my mate. My child."
"It…it was just talk," Brenner whimpered. "Free speech. You can't—"
"I can do anything I want," Victor said, his voice soft. "You are a gnat that buzzed too close."
Elara entered. Brenner flinched.
"You used my past," she said, her voice chillingly calm. "You used a man's medical history. You attacked an infant. You are not a player. You are a stain."
"What do you want?" Brenner sobbed.
Victor leaned down, caging him in the chair. "You will draft a full confession. You will detail every lie. You will deliver it to the district attorney. You will plead guilty."
"Prison? I can't go to prison!"
"Then you will leave," Elara said. "You will get on a plane to a country of our choosing. You will never return. You will never speak our names again. You will be a ghost in truth."
It was exile. A life erased.
Brenner nodded frantically. "Yes. Okay. Exile. I'll go."
Jax hauled him out.
Victor and Elara were left alone. The adrenaline drained, leaving a hollow bruise.
"A clerk," Victor spat. "All that noise. For a clerk."
"The last ghost," Elara said, leaning her forehead against his chest. "Not a king. Just a petty, bitter little man. The Old Guard's final echo."
Victor wrapped his arms around her, holding her and the life within.
The ghost was gone. Exorcised by blinding truth and the threat of sun-bleached exile.
They had faced the whispers and answered with a roar.
The war of whispers was over.
---
They rode home in the silent car. City lights blurred past.
Victor looked at Elara, asleep against his shoulder. The ultrasound picture of their daughter was tucked in her clutch.
The last ghost was gone. The air was clear.
Now, they could finally breathe.