The first thing I felt was warmth. A solid, encompassing warmth that had nothing to do with the sun filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was Kaelen. His arm was a heavy, possessive band around my waist, his chest a wall of heat against my back. For a single, disorienting moment, the world was just this: the scent of his skin on the sheets, the steady rhythm of his breath against my hair, the profound peace of being held.
I stretched, a slow, languid movement, and felt a distinct soreness between my thighs. It was a deep, physical reminder of the night before, of how thoroughly he'd claimed me. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped my lips.
He stirred instantly. His arm tightened, pulling me flush against him. He didn't open his eyes, but a slow, deeply satisfied smirk curved his mouth.
"Sore?" he murmured, his voice a sleep-roughened rumble that vibrated through me.
The sheer, male pride in that one word was both infuriating and endearing. I shifted in his arms to face him, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with my finger.
"A man of your experience," I teased, my voice still husky with sleep, "should know his own strength, Mr. Vancourt. I'm far too young to have that kind of experience."
I expected a cocky retort, a deepening of that smirk. Instead, his eyes flew open. A faint, dusky pink flushed across his cheekbones. He looked… flustered. The great Kaelen Vancourt, brought to blush by a simple tease.
He captured my wandering hand, bringing my fingertips to his lips. His gaze, suddenly serious and unbearably soft, held mine.
"There is... no experience," he said, his voice low and raw with a truth that stole my breath. "There is only you, Elara. It has only ever been you."
The world tilted. The ache in my body, the glow on my skin—it all coalesced into a single, staggering realization. The intensity, the almost desperate reverence, the way he seemed to be learning me as we moved… it wasn't a practiced skill. It was instinct. It was us.
My playful smile softened into something far more tender. I leaned forward, closing the small space between us, and brushed my lips against his in a kiss that was a silent apology and a profound thank you.
"It was a good ache," I whispered against his mouth, finally answering his first question.
His arms encircled me fully then, and he kissed me back, not with the hunger of the night, but with a promise for all the mornings to come.
The warmth of him, the scent of us on the sheets—it was a sanctuary I never wanted to leave. But the world outside had teeth, and it never slept for long.Even here, in the hush of morning, I could feel the quiet hum of crisis waiting beyond the glass.
Kaelen stirred beside me, his body shifting, his mind already miles ahead."The press conference is set for ten," he said, his voice no longer softened by the night. "Mark confirmed the media list—mostly business and financial outlets. No gossip tabloids."
"Good," I murmured, pulling the sheet higher. "We keep it framed as a corporate matter, not a scandal."
His gaze flicked toward me—sharp, calculating. "You'll stand with me when I speak. Not behind. Beside. Visual symmetry. That alone will kill half the rumors before we say a word."
I nodded slowly. "Optics first, then-"
He slowly brushed a strand of hair from my face. "We neutralize the situation, and the photograph—call it what it is: manipulation and defamation-"
I smiled at him. "Then, we pivot. I will tell the reporters that the photo of me and Liam, was a calculated attack on the Sterling-Vancourt alliance."
Kaelen continued, "Turn the scandal into a governance issue. Make them talk about integrity, not intimacy."
"Legal?" I asked.
"Already drafting an injunction against any outlet that publishes the photo," he said. "A formal injunction against publication of the doctored image. And media monitoring across networks. You can have Sterling's comms team run parallel support to amplify your statement."
I looked at him, a faint spark of admiration. "You are terrifyingly good at damage control."
"And you," he countered softly, "really are your father's daughter, if not better."
A brief silence. The kind that felt like understanding rather than pause.
He reached for my hand across the sheets, his thumb running along my knuckles—not tenderness, but grounding. "This doesn't end at the press conference," he said. "After today, it's a containment operation. Every director, every shareholder, every whisper—we handle it before it spreads."
I met his gaze, steel matching steel. "Then let's be clear, Kaelen. Let's give them something bigger and better to write about."
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Together, then."
"Always."
The car moved like a bullet through the city—windows tinted, silence sharpened by the occasional crackle of Mark's updates through the phone's loudspeaker.
Kaelen sat beside me, immaculate in charcoal and white, the restrained authority of a man who'd decided to end a war. The cuff of his watch gleamed beneath his sleeve, his tie perfectly knotted. I'd chosen a white fitted dress with a black blazer, minimal jewelry, hair swept into a low twist—a statement of control, not apology.
"Press turnout is higher than expected," Mark said from the front seat, scrolling through his tablet. "Financial Times, Financial Daily, The Globe, even Channel 9. They're running the photo of Bella leaving the gala in tears, some of them running the leaked photo, but the tone's shifting—half the coverage already questions what it means."
Kaelen's expression didn't change. "Good. Let them keep guessing."
Mark hesitated, then added, "One more thing. I saw David and Bella around the venue earlier. They didn't come in through the main entrance. My guess—they'll try to make a scene."
Kaelen's fingers tightened once on his knee, then stilled. "Let them."
Through the tinted glass, the world outside blurred into movement—reporters clustering behind barricades, camera flashes pulsing like lightning against the dark shine of the car. Security was already struggling to contain the noise. Someone held up a tablet with our faces on it—mine beside Bella's, headlines crawling beneath like veins.
I took a breath. "They're waiting to see if we'll flinch."
Kaelen turned to me then, calm, unreadable. "Then we won't."
The car slowed, the roar of the crowd swelling. Kaelen straightened his jacket, glanced back once. "We're here."
Kaelen reached for the door handle, then paused. His voice dropped low, meant only for me. "Whatever happens out there, Elara—don't let them rewrite us."
I met his gaze, steady. "They won't."
The door opened. Flashbulbs exploded. And the war began.
The moment we stepped out of the car, the air changed—dense with heat, camera flashes, and the metallic hum of chaos barely restrained by velvet ropes.Mark led the way, his phone pressed to his ear, his other hand gesturing us through the glass doors of the Vancourt headquarters.Beyond them—an arena.
The atrium had been transformed overnight into a press hall. Rows of cameras, lights glaring against marble, reporters murmuring in anticipation. The Vancourt crest gleamed behind the podium like a seal of command.
Mark walked ahead, speaking into his earpiece, his tone clipped."The journalists are in position. Mostly business media, but a few gossip outlets slipped in. And… David and Bella were seen near the building fifteen minutes ago."
I felt Kaelen still beside me. His silence was a blade.Then, quietly, "Let them come."
The words were calm, but they carried the weight of an execution order.
We walked in together. The murmur in the room fractured into silence, like glass shattering under pressure.
Kaelen reached the podium first. His voice when he spoke was low, commanding, built for boardrooms and war rooms alike.
"Good morning. I will make this brief, and I will start with the question everyone wants to ask," he said, his voice steady. "Bella Smith and I were never in a relationship. Not a past one. Not a secret one. The photo of us that is being circulated was a staged moment taken out of context. It was staged to suggest intimacy that never existed. A manipulation. This is matter is currently under investigation and I am not in the position to further comment until the investigation results are out."
He turned slightly—toward me. The gesture was subtle, deliberate.
The cameras swiveled, the sudden brightness washing over my face.I met their gaze — all of them — and smiled, just enough to suggest composure over fury.
"Sterling Group stands with Mr Vancourt. What has circulated over the past weeks was not scandal, but sabotage—an attack on corporate integrity meant to destabilize an alliance that threatens competing interests.The individuals behind this will face legal consequences. The rest of us will continue doing what we do best: leading."
The cameras clicked like a swarm of locusts.For a heartbeat, it worked. The story was under control.And then—
"Kaelen!"
Her voice ripped through the air like a scream through glass.
The room erupted. Flashbulbs exploded as Bella pushed past the security cordon, flanked by a few eager reporters who smelled blood.
She looked perfect for the cameras—hair loose, eyes rimmed red, her expression that of a betrayed lover — beautiful, tragic, rehearsed.
"You can't stand here and pretend it meant nothing!" she cried, her voice trembling, perfectly mic-ready. "You told me you loved me, Kaelen! You said you'd leave her! Don't you dare stand there and—"
Kaelen turned toward her, the calm gone, replaced by something cold enough to freeze the room.
"Bella," he said, quietly, "enough."
She ignored him, stepping closer, eyes bright with unshed tears.
"You're lying! The photo is the proof! You begged me to keep it a secret. Tell them what we were, Kaelen! Tell them I wasn't just another—"
"Stop."The single word cracked through the air.
Every camera froze mid-flash.
"What you're describing," Kaelen said, voice low, measured, "was an incident you engineered. You drugged my drink. You took photographs. You used them to put yourself between me and Ms Sterling, and when that failed, you ran to the press. This isn't love, Bella. It's blackmail."
The room detonated in noise — gasps, shouts, chaos.Bella's face drained of color.
For one fraction of a second, the mask slipped — panic, real and raw, flickering behind her eyes.
Then she turned and fled through the back doors, chased by reporters like wolves scenting blood.
Kaelen exhaled slowly, the microphone picking up the faint sound.
"That concludes our statement," he said. "Good morning."
He turned, his hand finding the small of my back as we walked through the chaos together — united, unbroken, and already two steps ahead of the storm we had just unleashed.