Two days after Vogel's visit, Nadia arrived at Verdant's headquarters to find a tabloid spread waiting on her desk. The headline read: "London's Most Unexpected Power Couple." Beneath it, a photo of her and Tom leaving the charity dinner, his hand on her back, her forced smile frozen in print.
Her assistant shifted nervously. "Reporters have been calling all morning. Some are asking if this was a sudden romance. Others want details about the wedding."
Nadia clenched her jaw. Publicity meant attention. Attention meant scrutiny. She had wanted Reinhardt's approval, not London's gossip pages.
Her phone buzzed. Tom.
"Don't panic," he said the moment she answered.
"I'm not panicking," Nadia replied tightly.
"You sound like you're panicking. Meet me at Kingsley Tower in an hour. We need to talk strategy."
---
Tom's office overlooked the Thames. He held up a copy of the same magazine, smirking. "They love us."
"They're circling like sharks," Nadia shot back. "One wrong headline, and Reinhardt will suspect everything."
"That's why we lean in," Tom said calmly. "We give them just enough to believe. No denial, no hiding. We act like the couple they want us to be."
"And what if they dig deeper?"
"Then we stay one step ahead."
Nadia studied him. He looked relaxed, even pleased. She hated that he seemed to enjoy this circus, while for her it was another battlefield.
"What exactly do you suggest?" she asked.
"A joint interview. Controlled setting. We choose the outlet, the questions, the narrative. We show Reinhardt—and everyone else—that we're real."
Nadia exhaled sharply. "You're suggesting we feed the tabloids?"
"I'm suggesting we weaponize them," Tom corrected. "If we look confident, no one will question us. If we hide, they'll smell blood."
She didn't like it. But he was right.
---
That evening, they sat together in the penthouse, drafting talking points. Tom poured wine as he spoke.
"Keep it simple," he said. "How we met, why we married, what we value. Nothing too polished. People believe flaws."
"Fabrication requires precision," Nadia replied, scrolling through her notes.
"This isn't fabrication. It's performance. Different skill set."
She looked up sharply. "You sound far too comfortable lying."
Tom's smile faded into something quieter. "Maybe it doesn't feel like lying."
For a second, the air between them shifted. His gaze lingered on her face, soft and unguarded. Nadia forced herself to look back at the screen.
"Stick to the script," she muttered.
---
The next day, they sat on a sleek couch in a television studio. Lights glared. Cameras rolled. The interviewer smiled brightly.
"London's newest power couple," she began. "Tell us—was it love at first sight?"
Nadia's throat tightened. Tom answered smoothly. "Not at all. Nadia ignored me the first three times we met."
The interviewer laughed. "Really?"
"It's true," Tom said, glancing at Nadia with warmth that looked unscripted. "But I admired her. Still do."
The interviewer turned to Nadia. "And what changed your mind about him?"
Nadia hesitated. Every instinct screamed to deliver a clinical, controlled response. But Tom's eyes held hers, steady and certain. Against her own judgment, she said, "He didn't give up. He kept showing up. Eventually, I realized… he was serious."
Tom's smile deepened, genuine this time.
The interviewer nodded, satisfied. "Well, you two certainly look convincing. Perhaps too convincing."
Cameras clicked. The interview ended.
---
Later, in the car back to the penthouse, Nadia stared out the window.
"You pushed me," she said quietly.
Tom leaned back, watching her profile. "You sounded authentic. They believed you."
"I almost believed me."
Tom didn't answer. He didn't need to.
---
Back in her study, Nadia replayed the interview in her head. Her words, her tone, the way Tom had looked at her—it had felt real, dangerously real.
And if she was honest, that scared her more than bankruptcy ever had.