The rumors didn't evolve, they expanded. What had begun as whispers about Nara's proximity to Keigh slowly shifted shape, mutating into something colder, more calculated.
The narrative no longer lingered only on romance or impropriety. It aimed wider now, sharper. Competence, credibility, deservingness. The first article framed it delicately.
While H&N Events has enjoyed a recent surge in high-profile success, some industry observers question whether the company's rise can be solely attributed to talent and execution, or if strategic proximity to influential families has played a role. No accusations, no names, just implication.
By midday, the phrasing grew bolder. Sources within elite circles suggest that connections, rather than capability, may be opening doors for the event coordinating firm. Nara stared at her screen, jaw tight.
"They're not even subtle anymore," Hellen muttered from across the office, scrolling through her tablet. "They're laying groundwork."
"For what?" Nara asked quietly.
"For discrediting us," Hellen replied. "If they can't pull you down directly, they'll undermine the work."
Nara leaned back in her chair, exhaling slowly. This hurt in a different way. Attacks on her character were painful, but this, this reached into the very thing she had built with her own hands. Late nights, sacrifices, every meticulous detail she had poured herself into.
"They're saying we're successful because of Keigh," Nara said softly. "That without him, we'd be nothing."
Hellen's eyes hardened. "We were something long before we knew who he is."
Still, doubt had a way of seeping in where confidence once lived. Clients began asking careful questions. Some meetings ended with polite smiles but no follow-up. Others came with disclaimers, reassurances disguised as concern.
"You understand," one prospective client said gently, "how appearances can be… complicated."
Nara smiled through it, but each smile cost her something.
That evening, Keigh's family home felt heavier than usual. The study doors were closed, the air inside was thick with quiet authority.
Keigh stood across from his father, posture steady, expression controlled. The elder Dynamite sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, eyes sharp with something far more dangerous than anger. Disappointment.
"This is becoming a distraction," his father said at last.
Keigh didn't respond immediately. He had learned long ago that silence, here, was often louder than defense.
"The board is asking questions," his father continued. "Our partners are asking questions, and now your personal involvement is bleeding into professional perception."
"My personal life has never interfered with my work," Keigh said calmly.
His father's gaze sharpened. "That was before your personal life became public currency."
Across the room, Keigh's mother sat quietly, hands folded in her lap. Her expression was softer, but no less attentive.
"You're referring to Nara," Keigh said.
"I'm referring to optics," his father corrected. "And to a woman whose sudden rise coincides too conveniently with your withdrawal from strategic alignment."
Keigh felt the line being drawn.
"She is capable," Keigh said firmly. "Her work stands on its own."
"Capability is not the question," his father replied. "Perception is and perception shapes power."
His mother finally spoke. "You've seen her work, haven't you? The royal ball alone....."
"The royal ball is precisely the issue," his father cut in. "One success tied to royalty does not absolve suspicion, especially when her background offers no counterweight."
Keigh's jaw tightened. "You're judging her for where she comes from."
"I'm judging risk," his father said coolly. "A woman with no lineage, no visible roots, suddenly positioned beside you? That invites speculation."
"And speculation invites enemies," Keigh countered. "Which you taught me to handle, not retreat from."
His father stood then, slow and deliberate. "I taught you to protect the name, to choose alliances that strengthen us."
His eyes locked onto Keigh's. "She does not."
The words settled like a verdict. Silence stretched between them until Keigh's mother rose quietly.
"She strengthens him," she said gently. "And sometimes that matters just as much."
Her husband turned toward her, surprised. "This is not sentiment."
"No," she agreed. "But neither is it coincidence that since meeting her, he's been more focused, more deliberate, more human and less cold."
Keigh glanced at his mother, something like gratitude flickering briefly across his features.
His father exhaled sharply. "You're letting emotion cloud judgment."
"Or," she replied calmly, "you're letting fear decide it."
That night, Nara sat alone in Hellen's apartment, the city humming faintly beyond the windows. Her phone lay facedown on the table. She hadn't checked it in hours. She was tired of reading herself reduced to a variable in other people's equations.
When Keigh arrived later, she sensed it immediately, the tension coiled beneath his calm exterior.
"Your father spoke to you," she said quietly.
He nodded.
"What did he say?"
Keigh hesitated, then chose honesty. "That the pressure will increase. That as long as we're visible, they'll keep questioning you. Us."
Nara absorbed that in silence.
"I don't want to be the reason....." she began.
"You're not," he interrupted gently. "And I won't let anyone frame you as one."
She looked up at him then, eyes searching. "But what if this costs you more than you're willing to lose?"
Keigh stepped closer. "What if it costs me less than losing you would?"
Her breath caught. Still, the weight remained.
Outside their quiet space, the narrative continued to spin. Commentators debated merit versus access, anonymous voices questioned integrity. The Alarics watched, patient, satisfied. They didn't need to accuse directly.
Doubt was doing the work for them, but inside Keigh, something had settled. This was no longer just about reputation or alliances. It was about choosing where he stood when lines were drawn quietly, irrevocably and he had already chosen.