The boardroom was colder than usual.
Not in temperature no, the air was perfect, calibrated down to the decimal but in presence. The kind of cold that settled in your bones because everyone in the room had already decided what they wanted from you.
I stood at the head of the table, hands resting lightly on polished wood, eyes moving slowly from face to face. Men and women I had built fortunes with. People who owed their careers to my decisions. People who had smiled at me across champagne flutes and congratulated me on victories we'd shared.
Now, they watched me like I was a variable.
Elias wasn't here.
That was intentional.
Not because I was hiding him but because this room didn't deserve him yet.
"Thank you for coming on short notice," I said calmly.
A few nodded. One woman cleared her throat. Another man leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, expression unreadable.
"We'll be direct," one of them said. "There's concern."
Of course there was.
"About perception," another added. "Stability."
I almost smiled.
"About my private life," I said, saving them the trouble.
A flicker of discomfort passed through the room. Not denial. Never denial. They preferred euphemisms.
"We believe," the first man said carefully, "that recent developments could be… misinterpreted. Investors are sensitive. The media is opportunistic."
"And people," I replied evenly, "are uncomfortable when they can't control a narrative."
Silence.
"You've always kept your personal affairs discreet," a woman said. "This situation is… different."
"Yes," I agreed. "It is."
Someone shifted. Another glanced at the tablet in front of them. They were waiting for me to reassure them. To promise distance. To imply sacrifice.
They didn't know me as well as they thought.
"Let's be clear," I continued. "There has been no breach of ethics. No conflict of interest. No misuse of resources. If this were about business, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"That's precisely the problem," someone muttered.
I turned my gaze to him. "Say that again."
He straightened. "This isn't about business. It's about distraction. Vulnerability."
I nodded slowly. "You're right. It's not about business."
I leaned forward, palms flat on the table. "It's about fear."
The word landed hard.
"You're afraid because I didn't ask permission to live," I said. "Because something matters to me that you don't own. Because you can't package it or spin it or reduce it to a line item."
"That's not fair," someone said.
I laughed softly. "Neither is pretending this concern exists in a vacuum."
They looked at me now really looked. And some of them realized, too late, that this meeting wasn't a negotiation.
"I will not distance myself from my life to make you comfortable," I said. "I will not deny who I choose to stand with. And I will not dismantle something real to preserve something artificial."
One man exhaled sharply. "You're asking us to take a risk."
"No," I corrected. "I'm informing you that I already have."
Silence stretched.
Then: "If this becomes public"
"It already is," I said. "The difference is whether I control the truth, or you let others invent it."
They exchanged looks.
"You can either stand with me," I continued, "or you can stand in my way. But understand this: I will not retreat."
The room felt different after that.
Not resolved.
But decided.
Elias was waiting when I got back.
Not pacing. Not anxious.
Sitting on the edge of the couch, sleeves rolled up, reading something he probably wasn't absorbing. He looked up when I entered, eyes searching my face before I said a word.
"Well?" he asked quietly.
I dropped my jacket onto the chair. "They pushed."
"And?"
"I didn't."
He studied me for a long moment. Then he stood and crossed the room, stopping just in front of me.
"Are you okay?" he asked.
That question, always that question nearly undid me.
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I'm here."
He nodded, accepting that answer for what it was. He always did.
"You stood your ground," he said.
"Yes."
"And now?"
"Now we wait," I replied. "And we choose what comes next before someone else does."
He stepped closer, resting his forehead against my chest. I wrapped my arms around him instinctively, holding him like the world might try to take him if I didn't.
"They'll come for me next," he said quietly.
"Yes."
He didn't pull away. "Are you afraid?"
I thought about it.
"Yes," I said honestly. "But not of losing control."
"Then what?"
"Of how much it would destroy me if I lost you."
He tilted his head up, eyes dark and steady. "Then don't lose me."
The simplicity of it hurt.
"I won't," I said.
We stayed like that for a long time no words, no urgency. Just breathing. Just presence. The kind of closeness that didn't need to prove itself.
Later, as night fell and the city lights came on one by one, Elias sat beside me at the window, legs drawn up, shoulder pressed to mine.
"They'll try again," he said.
"I know."
"Louder next time."
"Yes."
He glanced at me. "You won't break?"
I looked at him really looked at him and felt something settle deep in my chest.
"No," I said. "But I might change."
He smiled faintly. "Good. So will they."
Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, something solid had formed.
Not certainty.
Not safety.
But commitment.
And that, I knew, was far more dangerous than fear.