The car jolted as the driver swung into a hard U-turn. Neon smeared across the windows, rain painting it in violent brushstrokes. I gripped the leather seat until my knuckles hurt.
"They let a blogger into the boardroom?" I asked, voice pitched too high.
Ethan's voice crackled from the speaker. "Yes. He's streaming on multiple platforms. Viewers in the thousands already. Headline: Inside Blackwell Capital—The Forbidden Game."
Adrian's jaw worked once, then stilled. He didn't look at me. He looked at the storm outside as if it were an opponent. "Which board member?"
"They're hiding behind process," Ethan replied. "But logs show access badge from Whitmore."
Adrian closed his eyes, just once. "Of course."
"Who's Whitmore?" I asked.
"A shareholder with more ego than stock," Adrian said. "And a vendetta against anything that makes him feel irrelevant." His hand flexed on his knee. "He saw blood in the water and thought he could chum it."
The car braked hard in front of the service entrance. Adrian turned to me at last. "Ella. You don't leave my side. No comments. No denial. You'll do exactly what I say."
I nodded. Rule Four: Trust no one but me.
The service corridor swallowed us—fluorescent buzz, concrete walls, the hum of the building's machinery. Ethan met us halfway down, phone in one hand, grim satisfaction in his eyes.
"Stream's still live," he said. "They're spinning that the intern—" His glance at me was apology. "—is being hidden in your office like some… mistress."
Heat flared behind my ribs. Hidden. Mistress. Words chosen to burn.
"Good," Adrian said.
I blinked. "Good?"
"Better to accuse me of lust than of weakness," he said. "Lust fades. Weakness kills stock."
He strode forward. We followed.
When the conference room door opened, the sound hit first: the rapid-fire chatter of a man who thinks a camera makes him bulletproof.
"…inside source confirms Blackwell's intern is Carter's daughter," the blogger crowed to a phone propped on a tripod. "Look at this room, folks—executives frozen like deer, while the king himself hides. What are they hiding? A merger of hearts, or just dirty family laundry?"
Gasps and coughs rippled from the board members around the table. Some hid their faces. Others leaned in, complicit.
Adrian stepped through the doorway, and the temperature dropped.
The blogger faltered mid-sentence. The stream chat, visible on his phone, exploded with comments.
Adrian didn't shout. He didn't lunge. He walked to the table head and rested his hands on the polished wood. "End your stream."
The blogger laughed, shaky but loud enough for his audience. "Transparency, Mr. Blackwell. Don't you owe—"
"End. It."
The silence after was thicker than thunder. The blogger's hand twitched toward his phone.
Adrian's gaze flicked to Ethan. A single nod. Ethan moved faster than the camera could follow, hand cutting the feed, powering the phone down with surgical calm.
"You can't—" the blogger sputtered.
"I can," Adrian said, voice soft and lethal. "Because you're trespassing. Because you were invited under false pretenses. Because this building is mine." He turned to the board. "And because every second you gave him was a second you traded your integrity for spectacle."
No one breathed.
Then Adrian straightened, suit sharp despite the storm stains, eyes sweeping the table. "Anyone else want to sell the company to gossip sites? Or shall we return to business?"
One by one, heads shook. Papers shuffled. The oxygen shifted back into the room.
I thought it was over—until the blogger, red-faced and desperate, spat: "Ask her! Ask the intern if she's his! That's what the world wants to know!"
Every gaze pivoted. The board. The assistants. The unseen thousands still watching on mirrored re-uploads.
My throat locked.
Adrian spoke before I could. "She's mine—because I hired her." Each word clipped, measured. "Because she works harder than half this table. Because she saved us from repeating a false rumor this morning that would have cost millions. That's who she is."
My lungs filled again.
The blogger sneered. "And Carter Media? The conflict?"
Adrian's eyes glinted. "The conflict is between competence and cowardice. Between truth and leaks. And I assure you, I have already identified the coward." His gaze sliced sideways—to HR Lemon Blazer, sitting three chairs down. Her face drained color.
Whispers hissed. The blogger tried to rise, but security arrived at Adrian's silent gesture, lifting him by the elbows, carrying him toward the hall. His protests echoed, tinny now, powerless without his camera.
Adrian closed his folder. "Meeting adjourned. Real discussions resume tomorrow. Without distractions."
Chairs scraped. Board members scattered like crows.
When the door shut, it was just the three of us—Adrian, Ethan, me. My pulse hadn't slowed.
"You didn't speak," Adrian said.
"You didn't give me permission," I managed.
Something like approval flickered across his face. "Good."
Ethan cleared his throat. "We've contained the live stream, but the clip will travel. Damage control requires framing."
Adrian nodded once. "We frame it with facts. Ella Carter is an intern who performed above expectation. End of story."
"But—" I began.
He cut me off. "Rule Two, Ella. No wasted words. Don't explain what you don't owe."
The room tilted again, but not from fear. From the weight of being shielded by someone who understood exactly how much words could cost.
And then—buzz. My phone. One new message.
Unknown:You survived live fire. But tomorrow's bullet has your name.