Exposure
The article goes live on a Tuesday morning.
I find out because my phone doesn't stop vibrating.
Unknown: Is it true?
Unknown: You and Blackwood??
Maya: Please tell me you've seen the news.
My stomach drops.
I open the link.
A business blog. Not a tabloid—but close enough to hurt.
"Blackwood Industries CEO Linked to Rising Creative Strategist"
The wording is careful. The implications aren't.
Photos from the gala. The elevator. Blurry, but unmistakable.
My name is there.
Not as a professional.
As a footnote.
Crestline goes quiet.
Not hostile. Not supportive.
Watchful.
Maya pulls me into a conference room. "PR is asking questions. Not threatening ones—but they want to know if this becomes a distraction."
"I won't let it," I say.
She studies me. "I believe you. But belief doesn't stop headlines."
Across the city, Blackwood Industries releases a statement. Polished. Neutral.
Mr. Blackwood maintains strict professional standards. Any personal matters do not influence company decisions.
No denial.
No confirmation.
Just enough ambiguity to keep the story alive.
Elliot calls me that night.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately.
"For what?"
"For not stopping it sooner."
"You don't control the press," I reply.
"No," he agrees. "But I control my exposure."
The implication lands.
"You're thinking about stepping back," I say.
"Yes."
My chest tightens. "From me?"
"From public association," he says carefully. "To protect you."
There it is again.
Protection.
I close my eyes. "I didn't ask for that."
"I know," he says softly. "But the cost will be higher for you than for me."
"That's my decision."
A pause. Longer this time.
"You're right," he says. "Then let me ask instead."
I wait.
"Do you want me to disappear from this?" he asks. "Publicly."
The question is worse than any demand.
"If you do," he continues, "I'll make it clean. Final."
Final.
I lean back against my kitchen counter, heart pounding.
"I want you to stand beside me," I say finally. "Not in front. Not behind."
Silence.
Then: "That will escalate this."
"Yes," I say. "It will."
His voice lowers. "And if I do that… it stops being manageable."
"I know."
Another pause.
Then, quietly: "Then we do it together."
The next day, Elliot does something unprecedented.
He shows up.
At Crestline.
Not for a meeting. Not for business.
He walks in beside me, calm and unflinching, and when the whispers start, he doesn't shut them down.
He doesn't feed them either.
He simply exists—present, respectful, unmistakably aligned.
By afternoon, the narrative shifts.
Not a secret.
Not a scandal.
A risk.
That night, we sit on my couch, exhaustion heavy between us.
"This will get harder," I say.
"Yes," he agrees.
"And you might regret this."
He looks at me, steady. "I already regret the years I spent avoiding it."
I smile softly. "That sounds dangerously like a confession."
He leans in, forehead resting against mine. "Get used to it."