The message glowed on my phone like a curse. Tomorrow's bullet has your name.
I locked the screen before Adrian could see the tremor in my hand. Not because I didn't trust him—Rule Four was burned into my bones now—but because admitting how badly I was shaking felt like giving the world another angle.
Ethan was still talking logistics. "Clips are spreading, but we've seeded counter-narratives: blogger trespassed, CEO handled it with restraint, intern showed professionalism. Finance Feral is already pivoting to mock Whitmore instead."
Adrian gave a short nod. "Good. Let them eat their own." Then his gaze flicked back to me. "Ella."
"Yes?"
"You're pale."
"I'm fine," I lied.
His eyes narrowed, as if peeling the word open. "Rule One."
The air squeezed around us. My throat worked. Don't lie to me.
"There was… another message," I admitted, voice small. "Anonymous. Threatening."
"Show me."
My hands betrayed me, shaking as I passed him the phone. He read the line, face unreadable. Then he handed it to Ethan. "Trace it."
Ethan's thumbs moved fast. "Disposable account. Masked IP. But the syntax—American punctuation, British spelling. Could be planted."
"Could be my father," I whispered.
Both men looked at me.
"He likes games," I said, swallowing hard. "He hates losing them. And if he thinks you're winning—he'll throw anything, anyone, even me, into the fire."
Silence weighed the room. Adrian finally said, "Then he's as reckless as the leaks say. And he's given me an advantage."
"What advantage?"
"People who play with fire rarely notice when they're already burning," he said.
The next morning dawned in headlines. BLACKWELL BOARDROOM BRAWL.CARTER HEIRESS OR CORPORATE HOSTAGE? Screens in the lobby screamed versions of me I didn't recognize. Every camera felt like a loaded gun.
Adrian walked beside me through the gauntlet. Calm. Measured. Untouchable. His hand brushed my elbow once—not possession, not comfort, just a warning: hold steady.
Inside, the elevators carried us to thirty-eight. Ethan met us with coffee and bad news.
"Daniel Carter called into Bloomberg," he said. "Live."
My stomach dropped. "What did he say?"
"That Adrian Blackwell is exploiting his daughter as a human shield to force a hostile takeover." Ethan's mouth tightened. "He's painting himself as a father fighting to protect his family legacy."
Adrian's smile was a blade. "Family legacy. He should trademark his hypocrisy."
I wanted to defend my father. Reflex. But the words snagged on too many memories: bailouts, broken promises, dinners where the check bounced.
"Do we respond?" Ethan asked.
"No," Adrian said. "Not yet." His gaze swept to me. "But you need to decide what you want to say when the world corners you."
"I…" My throat locked. "I don't know."
"Then you'll practice," he said.
Practice meant hours in the war room with Ethan holding a phone like a fake reporter, firing questions until I felt skinned alive.
"Did Blackwell lock you in his office?""No comment—we're focused on work."
"Are you romantically involved with him?""No comment—we're focused on work."
"Isn't this nepotism?""No. I applied through HR like everyone else. My performance speaks for itself."
Each answer felt like walking a tightrope above knives. By the tenth round my voice shook, but Adrian's didn't.
"Again," he said, unyielding.
By the fifteenth, something inside me snapped into place. My voice came out steady, almost cold.
"Better," Adrian murmured. "You're learning."
Learning what, I didn't dare ask.
At lunch, I sat alone in the break area, staring at headlines on my phone until my eyes blurred. Tara slid into the seat across from me, perfume sharp, smile sharper.
"Rough morning?" she asked, voice dripping sympathy.
I didn't answer.
She leaned closer. "I hear your dad's fighting back. Daddy-daughter drama makes such good copy."
My jaw clenched. "Stay out of it."
"Oh, I'm already in it," she said, eyes glittering. "The whole floor is. Everyone's betting whether you'll last the week. My money's on no."
I stood, too fast, chair scraping. Her laugh followed me down the hall, sticky as gum.
Back in the office, Adrian was at the window, phone in hand. He gestured me closer without looking. "Listen."
I pressed close enough to hear the voice on the other end. My father.
"…She's nineteen, Adrian. She doesn't understand your world. She doesn't understand you. If you don't let her walk out, I'll bury you with every contact I have left."
Adrian's reply was ice wrapped in velvet. "You already buried yourself, Daniel. She's not your shield. Not your pawn. And not your salvation."
"She's my daughter."
"She's my intern."
The call cut. Adrian turned, eyes meeting mine, a storm with edges. "He's desperate."
"I heard." My voice wobbled. "You didn't have to—"
"Yes," he interrupted. "I did."
That night, the storm broke again. Another message, slid under my hotel door in an unmarked envelope.
Leave him, Ella. Or watch him destroy us both.
My hands shook as I held the page.
Behind me, a knock. Adrian's voice, low through the wood. "Ella? Open the door."
I pressed the note to my chest, heart a drum. The rules screamed in my head.
Trust no one but me.
I turned the handle.