Elena's POV
"We need to move. Now."
Vincent grabs my hand and pulls me toward the back exit of the café before I can process what's happening. My phone won't stop buzzing—call after call, text after text, social media exploding with notifications.
"Where are we going?" I ask, half-running to keep up with his long strides.
"Somewhere private before the reporters find you." Vincent's jaw is tight. "Those photos went viral ten minutes ago. They'll track you here soon."
We burst through the back door into an alley where a black car waits. Vincent opens the door and practically pushes me inside before sliding in beside me. The driver pulls away immediately.
I finally look at my phone. The photos are everywhere—me supposedly leaving Vincent's apartment building at dawn, looking rumpled and guilty. They're incredibly realistic. If I didn't know they were fake, I'd believe them myself.
The headlines are brutal:
"CASTELLANO WIFE'S MORNING OF SHAME" "Elena Castellano's Secret Lover Revealed" "Billionaire's Wife Caught Cheating"
My hands shake. "This will destroy everything. Nobody will believe me now about Vivian or my family. They'll think I'm just a bitter, cheating wife making up lies."
"That's exactly what they want you to think," Vincent says, his voice hard. "Vivian's trying to discredit you before you can expose her. It's a smart move—morally disgusting, but smart."
I look at him. "How are you so calm? These photos have you in them too. Won't this damage your reputation?"
Something flickers across Vincent's face—amusement mixed with something darker. "I don't have a reputation to damage. Most people think I'm a seventy-year-old recluse who never leaves his mansion."
"What?" I blink at him, confused.
Vincent pulls out his phone and shows me a Google search of his own name. The images show an elderly man with white hair and a cane. "This is Vincent Rothwell—according to the public. My uncle, actually. He died five years ago, but I let people think he's still alive and I'm just his assistant."
My jaw drops. "Why would you do that?"
"Because when people know you're young, single, and rich, they become dangerous," Vincent says quietly. "My mother was murdered by her lover when I was sixteen. He wanted our family fortune. I learned early that money makes you a target. So I became invisible. Let the world think old Uncle Vincent runs the company while I work in the shadows."
The pain in his voice makes my chest ache. We're both victims of greed and betrayal.
"So these photos," I say slowly, "won't hurt you because nobody knows who you really are?"
"Exactly. The press will dig, but they'll find nothing. I've been very careful." Vincent's gray eyes meet mine. "But you don't have that protection, Elena. We need to control this narrative before it destroys you."
The car pulls up to a sleek office building. Vincent leads me inside and up to a penthouse office with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. It's elegant and minimalist—much like Vincent himself.
"Sit," he says, gesturing to a leather couch. "We're going to fix this."
"How?" I feel helpless, watching my life fall apart in real time on my phone screen.
Vincent makes a call. "Marcus, I need you at the office now. Bring everything we have on Vivian Hart—the design theft evidence, all of it." He hangs up and looks at me. "We're going nuclear. If Vivian wants to play dirty, we'll bury her."
My phone rings. Adrian's name flashes. I stare at it, my finger hovering over the decline button.
"Answer it," Vincent says. "Put it on speaker. I want to hear what he says."
I answer, hands shaking. "Hello?"
"Elena." Adrian's voice is ice and fury. "What the hell are you doing? Photos of you with another man are all over the internet. Do you have any idea how this makes ME look?"
Not "are you okay?" Not "is this real?" Just how does this affect HIM.
"The photos are fake, Adrian," I say tiredly.
"I don't care if they're fake!" he shouts. "You're making me look like a fool! Get back home right now so we can do damage control—"
"No."
Silence. Adrian isn't used to me saying no.
"What did you just say?" His voice drops to a dangerous level.
"I said no." Something in me hardens. "I'm not coming home. I'm not doing damage control. I'm done, Adrian."
"Done?" He laughs, sharp and mean. "You can't be done. You're my wife. You have obligations—"
"Did you have obligations when you were sleeping with my stepsister?" I ask quietly. "Did you think about your wife when you were building a secret family with Vivian?"
Another silence. Then: "I don't know what lies Vivian told you—"
"She didn't have to tell me anything. I saw your son, Adrian. The little boy who looks exactly like you. The one who called Vivian 'Mommy' and me 'the mean lady.'" My voice breaks but I push through. "How old is he? Four? Five? How long have you been cheating on me?"
"Elena—" Adrian's voice changes, becomes pleading. "It's complicated. You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." I'm crying now but I don't care. "You never loved me. I was just the substitute when Vivian ran away. And I was stupid enough to believe I could make you love me if I tried hard enough."
"That's not—look, we can work through this," Adrian says desperately. "These photos of you—we'll handle them together. Just come home—"
"Why?" I demand. "So you can control the narrative? Make me apologize for something I didn't do while you keep seeing Vivian behind my back?"
"I'm not seeing Vivian!" Adrian shouts.
"You're a liar," I say simply. "And I'm done being married to a liar."
I hang up. My whole body shakes with adrenaline.
Vincent hands me a tissue. "Well done."
"I just ended my marriage over the phone," I whisper.
"No," Vincent corrects gently. "Your marriage ended when he chose her over you. You just made it official."
The office door opens and a young man rushes in carrying a laptop and folders. "Boss, I got everything—" He stops when he sees me. "Oh. Sorry. Didn't realize you had company."
"Elena, this is Marcus Chen, my assistant," Vincent says. "Marcus, this is Elena Castellano. We're going to help her destroy Vivian Hart's career."
Marcus's eyes light up. "The design theft case? Oh, this is going to be good." He opens his laptop. "I've got dated sketches, testimony from Elena's art teachers, even security footage from her old school showing her working on these designs. Vivian Hart is toast."
"How fast can we release this?" Vincent asks.
"I can have a press package ready in two hours," Marcus says. "But sir, with these scandal photos circulating, the press might not take it seriously—"
"Then we make them take it seriously," Vincent interrupts. He looks at me. "Elena, I need you to trust me. What I'm about to suggest will be controversial, but it's the only way to control this story."
"What is it?" I ask nervously.
Vincent takes a breath. "We get married."
I stare at him. "What?"
"A fake marriage," he clarifies quickly. "We announce that we've been seeing each other for months, that your marriage to Adrian was already over, and that you're filing for divorce to be with me. Then we release the evidence about Vivian's design theft. When people learn you're the real designer behind her success, the narrative shifts. You're not a cheating wife—you're a betrayed artist taking back what's yours."
"That's insane," I whisper.
"It's strategic," Vincent counters. "Right now, you look guilty. But if we control the story, we change the game. Plus, being married to me protects you legally and financially. Your family can't touch you if you're my wife."
Marcus nods enthusiastically. "It's brilliant, actually. The press loves a redemption story. Wronged wife leaves cheating husband, reclaims stolen career, finds new love—it's perfect."
"But we barely know each other," I protest.
"Does that matter?" Vincent asks. "You were married to Adrian for three years and he never really knew you. At least with me, you know exactly what you're getting—a business arrangement that benefits us both."
I look at this stranger who's done more for me in one day than anyone else in my life. He's right. It is insane.
But maybe insane is exactly what I need.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Let's do it."
Vincent's smile is sharp and victorious. "Marcus, call my lawyers. I want a marriage license by end of day." He looks at me. "Elena Rothwell has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number with a photo attached.
I open it and my blood turns to ice.
It's a picture of me from this morning—the real me, leaving Rebecca Chen's office. And underneath, a message:
You think you're so smart, going to lawyers and planning revenge. But I'm always three steps ahead, little sister. Drop the lawsuits and the design theft accusations, or I release REAL photos—ones showing what you did the night before your wedding to Adrian. You remember that night, don't you? The night you swore you'd never tell anyone about? Guess who has video footage. You have 24 hours to back off, or your whole life gets destroyed. -V
My hands shake so badly I drop the phone.
Vincent picks it up, reads the message, and his face goes dark. "What is she talking about? What happened the night before your wedding?"
I can't speak. Can't breathe. The room spins.
Because Vivian's right. There is something from that night. Something I've kept secret for three years. Something that would destroy everything if it came out.
And somehow, Vivian knows.