The library doors slam open, and suddenly it's not just Adrian's voice echoing in my ears. It's a wall of noise.
The moment I step outside, cameras blind me. Flash after flash bursts against the storm-dark sky, turning raindrops into glittering shrapnel. Reporters shove microphones so close I nearly trip on the marble steps.
"Isabella! Over here—"
"How do you feel about inheriting the company?"
"Do you even have experience running an empire?"
"What do you say to claims you're Richard Sterling's illegitimate daughter?"
The word illegitimate hits harder than the rain.
I try to move forward, but the crowd presses tighter, the umbrellas jabbing, their voices overlapping into one sharp roar. My throat goes dry. My pulse is a drum in my ears.
Someone yells, "Will you sell your shares, Isabella? Was this your plan all along?"
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The flashes swallow me whole. I'm drowning in light and questions and whispers of she doesn't belong.
And then—
"Step back."
His voice cuts clean through the storm. Carlos Blackwood.
One moment I'm floundering; the next, he's beside me. Tall. Calm. Impossibly steady. His hand presses lightly against my back, guiding me forward, and the mob shifts like he has some invisible authority over them.
"Miss Sterling won't be taking questions at this time," he says, voice smooth and commanding. "The family grieves today. Let's remember Richard Sterling for his accomplishments, not your gossip."
The reporters actually listen. Cameras still flash, questions still fly, but the chaos bends around him, controlled, redirected.
He tilts his head toward me, low enough that only I hear: "Keep walking. Don't stop."
And I do, even though every cell in me screams not to take orders from him.
We reach the bottom of the steps, but the press closes in tighter, a wave of black coats and flashing bulbs.
"Mr. Blackwood!" someone shouts over the noise. "Does Sterling Global really intend to let an untested heiress run the empire?"
Carlos doesn't even blink. He steps slightly in front of me, blocking half their view. "Richard Sterling's decision speaks for itself," he says, calm as if he's at a cocktail party instead of drowning in microphones. "Miss Sterling holds controlling shares, and I have full confidence in her ability to rise to the role."
My stomach twists. Rise to the role? He makes me sound like a charity case.
Another voice cuts through the rain. "Are the rumors true that she was estranged from the family? Why her, and not Adrian?"
Carlos's smile is small, sharp. "You'll have to take that question up with the deceased. He wrote the will. We're here to honor it."
The crowd titters, a mix of frustration and amusement. He's not answering, not really — but they eat it up anyway.
One reporter lunges forward, umbrella nearly smacking me in the face. "Miss Sterling, are you and Carlos Blackwood working together? Or is this arrangement adversarial?"
The word burns. Adversarial. Like they already know we'll kill each other.
Before I can spit out the truth — I don't even want to stand next to this man, let alone share an empire with him — Carlos answers.
"Of course we'll work together," he says smoothly. His hand presses firmer against my back, steadying, claiming. "Richard Sterling trusted both of us with his legacy. That should tell you everything you need to know."
The microphones lower. The shouts soften. Somehow, impossibly, the storm obeys him.
I'm left silent, teeth clenched so hard my jaw aches. Because he just stole my voice, in front of the entire world.
The door slams behind me, shutting out the shouting, the flashes, the rain. For a second I just sit there in the leather seat, breathing hard, the ghost of cameras still popping in my eyes.
Carlos slides in beside me, calm as if we just left a brunch instead of a mob. He smooths his cuff, gives a nod to the driver, and the car eases away from the estate.
I snap. "Who the hell told you to speak for me?"
He doesn't look at me. Just leans back, relaxed, like I'm background noise. "If I hadn't, you'd be a headline disaster before lunch."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"You need a shield," he corrects, voice sharp but low. "And whether you like it or not, I'm the only one strong enough to hold it up."
My laugh is bitter. "Wow. Modest, aren't you?"
Finally, he turns his head. His eyes are dark, unreadable, steady on mine in a way that makes my skin prickle. "Modesty doesn't keep people alive in my line of work."
The air between us tightens, thick with something I can't name — anger, heat, maybe both.
I cross my arms, looking out the window at the blur of rain. "You don't know me. You don't know what I can handle."
"No," he says softly. "But I know what will try to handle you. And they don't play fair."
I hate that his words make something cold coil in my chest. I hate even more that part of me believes him.
By the time I make it home, the silence is worse than the noise. I kick off my heels the second I step into my room and sink down on the edge of the bed. My hands won't stop shaking.
I replay every flash, every question, every smug word from Carlos like it's on loop. The image of Vivian's cold stare at the will reading burns behind my eyes. Adrian's fist hitting the table echoes in my skull.
I didn't expect this. Any of it. I thought today would be about a funeral, not about inheriting a war.
The strong, unbothered mask I wore all day slips off in the quiet. My chest tightens. My breaths come short and fast. I press my palms over my eyes, but the panic still claws through.
For a few terrifying minutes, Isabella Sterling—the untouchable, arrogant daughter who just stole sixty-one percent of an empire—doesn't exist.
It's just me. A girl who doesn't know what the hell she's doing.