The morning light was harsh and unrelenting, slicing through the penthouse curtains as Ivy sat at the vanity mirror. Her hands shook slightly as she applied a layer of foundation, smoothing the blush she had never worn before.
Clara hovered behind her, clipboard in hand, eyes sharp and calculating.
"Remember," Clara said, "every word, every gesture, every glance will be analyzed. Smile when appropriate, speak when spoken to. Do not deviate. You're representing Mr. Cross and the Cross legacy today."
Ivy swallowed hard. She had survived the first scandal yesterday, but the real test was coming now: the press conference. The entire world—or at least every high-profile journalist in the city—would watch her carefully.
"I'm not a prop," Ivy said, her voice barely above a whisper, but it carried determination.
Clara's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not yet. But you will be if you don't follow instructions."
Ivy didn't respond. Instead, she straightened her posture, squared her shoulders, and stepped into the sleek black gown Clara had chosen: cream silk with subtle diamond accents, elegant but understated.
---
The Cross Foundation press room was buzzing with activity, photographers elbowing for the best angle, reporters scribbling notes, and cameras flashing in chaotic bursts.
Lucian was already there, composed and lethal in a charcoal suit, his presence silencing the crowd before a single word was spoken.
He offered his hand to Ivy. "Stay close. Eyes forward. Smile. Breathe."
Ivy's chest tightened, but she nodded, letting him guide her through the crowd. She could feel the whispers before anyone even spoke:
"Is that really her?"
"She doesn't look… like him."
"She's so… plain. And nervous."
Ivy's stomach lurched, but she forced herself to meet each gaze with poise, using every ounce of focus she had.
---
The lead journalist stepped forward, microphone poised. "Mrs. Cross, how does it feel to suddenly be thrust into high society alongside one of the most powerful men in the country?"
Ivy's hands clenched lightly at her sides. She inhaled, choosing her words carefully.
"It's… a learning experience," she said, her voice steady. "I'm honored to support Mr. Cross's work and… to grow alongside him."
Lucian's eyes flicked to her briefly, almost imperceptibly, before returning to the reporters. He didn't intervene, but the faintest tightening of his jaw told her she had passed his first test.
Another journalist pressed, sharper this time: "There are rumors circulating about the authenticity of your relationship. How do you respond to claims that this marriage is purely for image?"
Ivy's stomach dropped. She had rehearsed a neutral response, but instinct took over.
"It's… genuine in its own way," she said, the words trembling slightly but firm. "Our partnership is built on respect and trust, and I'm committed to supporting each other—both personally and professionally."
Murmurs ran through the room. Some approving, some skeptical.
Lucian's gaze found hers, and she felt the subtle acknowledgment in his eyes: You're learning. Keep going.
---
The final question came from a reporter known for his ruthless style. "Mrs. Cross, some socialites are calling you unworthy of Mr. Cross's status. How do you respond?"
Ivy's hands went cold, but she squared her jaw. This was her moment.
"I'm not defined by anyone else's opinion," she said clearly, meeting the camera lens head-on. "I know my value, and I stand beside Mr. Cross with confidence. That's all that matters."
A stunned silence fell over the room. Even Lucian's usual stoicism faltered for a heartbeat.
Clara's eyes widened slightly—a rare crack in her professional mask.
Lucian's voice finally cut through the tension. "That will be enough," he said smoothly, taking her hand and guiding her out of the room.
Ivy felt her heart race—not from fear, but from triumph. For the first time, she had held her own in Lucian's world.
---
Back in the sanctuary of the penthouse, Ivy slumped against the marble counter, finally allowing herself to exhale.
Lucian appeared quietly, leaning against the doorway, watching her.
"You exceeded my expectations," he said quietly, almost reluctantly.
"I'm learning," Ivy said, still breathing heavily. "I'm not perfect, but I can do this."
He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. "You can. But remember—this is not charity. Every word, every action is a weapon. And people will try to cut you down."
Ivy's eyes narrowed. "Then let them try. I'll survive."
Lucian's dark gaze lingered on her, assessing, calculating. For the first time, he said something almost tender, though it came wrapped in danger: "I like your fire, Ivy. Don't lose it… not entirely."
She swallowed hard, understanding the unspoken truth: in his world, fire was dangerous. But perhaps, just perhaps, it was her only weapon.
--
As Ivy watched the city lights flicker below, her phone buzzed. A notification flashed across the screen:
Breaking: Scandalous photos of Mrs. Cross leak online. Public reaction is mixed—outrage and fascination erupt simultaneously.
Her stomach churned. The world had already begun to pull her into the storm.
And Lucian… he would not let her face it alone.
But Ivy's mind whispered a defiant warning: This
time, I will not be tamed.
The battle between survival, control, and self-determination had only just begun.