The morning after the leak, Elena sat curled on the tufted velvet chaise in Damien's penthouse suite, watching the city breathe through rain-slicked windows. A gray haze had settled over Manhattan, and it mirrored the storm cloud in her chest.
The scandal hadn't just scratched the surface. It had gone straight for her throat.
She'd spent hours fielding frantic texts from Victoria and dodging aggressive reporters who camped outside her apartment. One even tried to bribe her landlord for her lease information.
Her world, once comfortably anonymous, was now a commodity. A story. A curiosity.
And worst of all—a threat to Damien's empire.
The suite's double doors opened behind her.
"You're still here," Damien's voice rumbled, deeper than usual.
Elena turned to see him enter, freshly showered, dressed in slate gray slacks and a black button-down that clung to his frame in all the wrong—or right—ways.
"I figured I should stay until your PR team finishes plotting my public execution," she muttered.
He paused. "Don't joke."
"Why not? It's the only thing I still control."
He walked toward her, slowly, carefully—like she might break or bolt. "You're not the one who should be embarrassed. Or apologizing."
Elena scoffed. "That's rich coming from the man who sold me as the 'perfect future Mrs. Vale.'"
Damien didn't flinch. "I never claimed you were perfect."
"Gee, thanks."
He sighed and sat on the edge of the chaise, close but not touching. "Do you want me to issue a statement?"
Elena shook her head. "And say what? That I was poor, yes, but now I'm not, and it's okay because the billionaire approved?"
His jaw flexed.
She stood, pacing. "I worked three jobs to get through NYU. I slept in a shared studio with two girls and a mattress on the floor. My mother scrubbed hotel toilets for tips. And now people are treating me like I lied—like I faked it."
"You didn't," Damien said.
"But it doesn't matter." Her voice cracked. "Because in your world, perception is reality. I don't have old money or a last name that opens doors. All I have is me."
Damien stood and moved in front of her, gently taking her hand. "That's not all you have."
She met his eyes—gray steel, clouded by something unexpected.
Vulnerability?
"Elena," he said quietly, "I don't care what they write. You're still the woman who told my mother to her face that charm wasn't enough. Who made a boardroom full of old men respect her, without pedigree or pretense. That's the woman I need."
Elena exhaled shakily. "You don't need anyone."
His lips twitched. "Maybe that's the problem."
---
By mid-afternoon, Victoria had arranged an emergency PR session at Vale Tower. The board was whispering. Investors were uneasy. The leak had triggered scrutiny—not just of Elena, but of the Vale brand as a whole.
"Damage control," Victoria said briskly, pacing in Louboutin heels across the polished glass floor of the executive conference room. "We need to reframe the narrative. Turn the press from scandal to storybook."
Elena sat at the end of the table, next to Damien, who remained uncharacteristically silent.
Victoria snapped her fingers. "We highlight Elena's work ethic. Her immigrant background. Her 'against-all-odds' success. It's palatable, inspirational."
"I'm not a brand," Elena muttered.
"No," Victoria said, "you're the face of one. Big difference."
Damien glanced at Elena. "She needs to tell her story in her own words. No scripts."
Victoria arched an eyebrow. "You want authenticity? You'll get backlash. Her history isn't polished."
Damien leaned forward. "Neither was mine."
A tense pause followed.
Then Victoria relented. "Fine. We'll do an exclusive. Elena gets one outlet. Something high-profile, but sympathetic. Vanity Fair or The Cut. We style her, prep her, give her a full editorial review."
"I don't want to lie," Elena said.
"You won't," Victoria promised. "But you will shape the truth."
---
Later, Damien drove her to the West Village to meet someone she hadn't expected to see again—her old friend and roommate, Liza Moretti.
They hadn't spoken in over a year. Life had gotten in the way. Or maybe Elena had let it.
When Liza opened the apartment door, her eyes widened. "Elena? Holy hell. What are you doing here—dripping in cashmere and scandal?"
Elena winced. "It's a long story."
"You better come in."
The apartment was still the same—bohemian chaos, stacks of poetry books, incense burning in the corner. Liza poured wine without asking and flopped onto the couch.
"So. You're dating a billionaire."
Elena sat beside her. "Fake dating."
Liza blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
Elena spilled everything. The contract. The fake engagement. The public leak. And now, the looming Vanity Fair interview.
Liza listened, eyes wide, mouth open.
When Elena finished, her voice trembled. "I know it sounds insane."
"It is insane," Liza said. "But it's also... kind of brilliant."
"What?"
"You played a rigged game and made it to the top. And now you want to play fair? Babe, there's no such thing."
Elena looked down at her glass. "I don't want to become the kind of person I used to hate."
Liza touched her arm. "Then don't. Just tell the truth. The real truth. And if Damien Vale doesn't like it, he can go back to brooding in his money tower."
They laughed. And it felt good. Humans. Grounded.
Like home.
---
Three days later, Elena sat for the interview at a sunlit Manhattan loft, styled in a blush silk blouse and soft cream trousers. A minimalist look—chic, but not flashy.
The journalist, a woman named Nora with a warm smile and sharp mind, began gently.
"Let's start with something simple. Who is Elena Cruz?"
Elena smiled faintly. "A question I've been asking myself a lot lately."
She took a breath. "I'm the daughter of immigrants. I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment in Queens. My mother worked two jobs to make sure I had school supplies. I was told my whole life that girls like me didn't get fairy tales."
Nora leaned forward. "But now you're engaged to a billionaire."
"Yes," Elena said, carefully. "But it didn't happen the way people think."
"Tell me."
Elena hesitated, then spoke—measured but honest. "Damien Vale and I struck a deal. A partnership. At first, it was just business. But... somewhere along the way, the line between real and pretend started to blur."
Nora raised a brow. "Are you saying you fell for him?"
"I'm saying," Elena replied, "that pretending to be in love with someone is dangerous. Because the heart doesn't know the difference."
---
The article hit the internet within 48 hours.
The headline read:
> "From Barback to Billionaire Bride: The Unfiltered Truth of Elena Cruz"
It trended within an hour. Public reaction was divided. Some called her brave. Others accused her of manipulation. But the majority... respected her.
Because the truth, even in fragments, was powerful.
---
That night, Damien appeared at her door.
No press. No chauffeur. Just him—drenched in rain, coat unbuttoned, eyes burning.
"I read it," he said.
Elena folded her arms. "And?"
"You told the truth."
"I told my truth."
Damien stepped closer. "I don't think I've ever seen someone do that in my world."
She looked at him, unsure what to say.
Then he added, "You were brilliant."
Silence pulsed between them, thick and charged.
"Elena," he said slowly, "I didn't expect this to become real. But it is. And I can't keep pretending it's not."
Her heart stuttered.
"Are you saying you—"
"I'm saying I want you," he interrupted. "Not the version my board approves. Not the woman in the headlines. You. With fire in your voice and Queens in your bones."
She stared at him, every defense she had slowly unraveling.
And then she did something reckless.
She kissed him.