The cameras were already waiting when the car door opened.
Flashes exploded, voices tangled in the rain. Blackwell! Over here! Carter! Are you safe? The sidewalk was a battlefield, microphones like bayonets.
Adrian stepped out first, tall and unflinching. His presence bent the chaos into shape. He turned, extended a hand. Not forced, not staged—simply there, like gravity.
I took it.
The noise spiked.
Together, we moved through the storm, Ethan clearing a path with practiced elbows. Inside, the press room buzzed with heat and hunger. Rows of reporters, cameras blinking red, screens live-streaming to an audience already sharpening knives.
Adrian guided me to the podium, then stood half a step behind—visible, but letting the light fall on me. My knees wanted to fold. My pulse was louder than the rain outside.
Trust no one but me.
I gripped the edges of the podium and faced the world.
"My name is Ella Carter," I said, voice thinner than I wanted. "Yes, I'm nineteen. Yes, my father runs Carter Media. But I am here because I earned an internship, not because of my last name."
Reporters shifted. Pens scratched. One hand shot up. "Are you romantically involved with Mr. Blackwell?"
My throat locked. Adrian's presence steadied like a hand on my back.
"No comment," I said. "We're focused on work."
A ripple of laughter, derision, disbelief. Heat climbed my neck. I swallowed, forced my voice stronger. "But I will say this: I am not a victim. No one locked me anywhere. No one coerced me. The only people who've tried to use me—" My chest burned. "—are the ones claiming to protect me."
The words landed like broken glass.
A second reporter pounced. "So you're saying your father—?"
"I'm saying my life isn't his to weaponize," I snapped, louder than intended. "If he wants to defend a legacy, he should defend his employees, not drag his daughter into headlines."
The room gasped. Flashes fired faster. My father's name was now threaded with mine, but the weapon was in my hands.
Behind me, I felt Adrian's approval like heat.
Another voice: "Ms. Carter, can you confirm whether Blackwell intends to acquire Carter Media?"
I froze. The question was a trap lined with teeth.
Before I could fall, Adrian stepped forward, voice calm steel. "No intern answers for corporate strategy. That's my job. And my answer is this: we acquire value, not surnames."
The line cracked through the room, cold and final.
Hands shot up again. Ethan leaned in, whispered, "Wrap it."
I looked out at the crowd, at the sea of strangers who thought they owned my story. "That's all," I said, and stepped back.
The room erupted. Questions, accusations, hashtags flying before I even reached the door.
Backstage, my hands shook so badly I dropped my water bottle. Adrian caught it before it hit the floor.
"You burned him," he said softly.
"I burned myself too," I whispered.
"Maybe." His eyes met mine. "But fire spreads the way we choose."
Ethan slid in, tablet glowing. "It's trending. #NotAVictim. #CarterVsCarter. And—" He grimaced. "—#ForbiddenGame."
I groaned. "Of course."
"It's working," Ethan said. "Public opinion is shifting. Your father looks like he used his daughter for a stunt. You look… brave."
Brave. I didn't feel brave. I felt like someone standing on a ledge, praying the wind wouldn't notice.
Adrian's phone buzzed. He checked it, then showed me the screen.
A message. From my father's private number.
Daniel Carter:So this is war, Ella. You chose him. Then you'll fall with him.
The blood drained from my face. "He—he knows how to hurt me."
Adrian slipped the phone back into his pocket, his expression cut from stone. "Then we make sure he never gets the chance."
His hand brushed mine as we walked out together, flashes waiting. The world thought it had a story.
But the real game had only just begun.