The apology was scheduled before Arielle was allowed to recover from the humiliation.
She learned that fact at 6:12 a.m., when her phone vibrated against the glass nightstand, sharp and relentless, like a wound being reopened.
SEBASTIAN:
We need to talk before the press conference.
Press conference.
The words didn't feel real at first. They hovered somewhere above her, disconnected from her body, from the ache in her chest and the burning behind her eyes. Arielle lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city waking beneath the windows.
They were going to make her apologize.
Not for lying—because she hadn't.
But for existing in a way that didn't serve them.
She typed back one word.
ARIELLE:
Why?
The response came almost instantly.
SEBASTIAN:
Because they're escalating.
They.
Always they.
She sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Her body felt heavy, as though gravity had increased overnight. When she stood, her reflection in the mirror startled her—eyes shadowed, lips pale, shoulders drawn inward.
She looked like someone already defeated.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
The conference room was all glass and steel, perched high above the city like a throne room designed for judgment. Cameras were already set up when Arielle arrived, reporters murmuring among themselves, eyes sharp with anticipation.
Sebastian stood near the window, his back to the room, phone pressed to his ear. He didn't turn when she entered.
Arielle stopped a few steps inside, suddenly aware of how small she felt in the vast, exposed space.
When Sebastian ended the call, he turned—and froze.
For a moment, he simply looked at her.
Not the version of her the world had consumed last night. Not the polished image crafted for appearances.
But the woman standing in front of him now—raw, exhausted, bracing herself for impact.
I didn't know they'd move this fast, he said quietly.
They always do, she replied. When blood is in the water.
He nodded once, jaw tight. They want a statement. Carefully worded. No denial. No accusations.
No truth, she said flatly.
His silence confirmed it.
They've already drafted it, he added.
Something inside her went still.
You didn't even ask me, she said.
There wasn't time.
There's always time, she snapped. You just decided I wasn't worth it.
Sebastian stepped closer, lowering his voice. This is the only way to stop them from tearing you apart.
They already have.
And this is how we make them stop.
Arielle laughed softly, bitterly. You really believe that?
He hesitated.
That hesitation was the answer.
The statement was handed to her on a tablet.
She read it once.
Then again.
Each sentence felt like a blade disguised as politeness.
I regret any misunderstanding.
I apologize for the distraction caused.
I remain committed to supporting my husband and his company.
There was no mention of lies.
No mention of manipulation.
Only submission.
Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered the tablet.
You're asking me to erase myself, she said.
I'm asking you to survive, Sebastian replied.
At what cost?
His eyes darkened. At the cost of pride.
No, she said quietly. At the cost of dignity.
A tense silence stretched between them.
Then Sebastian said the one thing she hadn't expected.
If you don't do this, they'll invoke Clause Fourteen.
Her breath caught.
You promised—
I know what I promised, he said sharply. But I don't control them.
You let them control you.
His voice dropped. I let them control everything.
Arielle stared at him, something breaking open inside her chest. So this is it, she whispered. This is who you choose to be.
He looked away.
That was her answer.
The cameras went live at precisely 9:00 a.m.
Arielle stood at the podium, lights blinding, the room unnaturally silent. She could feel Sebastian's presence just behind her—close enough to steady her, distant enough to abandon her if needed.
She inhaled slowly.
And began.
The words left her mouth exactly as written, each one tasting like ash. She kept her voice steady, her expression composed, even as something inside her screamed.
When it was over, the room erupted into questions.
Arielle, are the allegations true?
Did Mr. Cross know about your past?
Are you being coerced?
She didn't answer.
Sebastian stepped forward, taking control, shielding the company, the narrative, the power.
Shielding everything but her.
As they exited, a reporter called out, Mrs. Cross, do you feel silenced?
Arielle paused.
For half a second, the entire room held its breath.
Then she smiled.
And walked away.
Back in the car, the silence was unbearable.
You did well, Sebastian said finally.
She stared out the window. You trained me quickly.
That's not—
You needed obedience, she cut in. Congratulations. You got it.
His jaw tightened. This wasn't easy for me either.
She turned then, eyes blazing. Do not insult me by pretending this hurt you the same way.
He flinched.
Good.
The penthouse felt colder than ever when they returned. Arielle moved through it like a ghost, aware of the cameras, the walls, the quiet watching.
She stopped in the bedroom doorway and turned back.
You could have ended this, she said. At any point.
Yes, he admitted.
Why didn't you?
The question hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
Sebastian's voice was low when he answered. Because if I lost control, they would destroy you.
And by keeping it, she said softly, you did.
She closed the door behind her.
That night, Arielle made her choice.
She packed a single bag—nothing flashy, nothing traceable. She avoided the cameras where she could, moving deliberately, carefully.
Before leaving the bedroom, she wrote one line in her notebook and left it on the bed.
Obedience ends here.
She slipped out into the night without a word.
Sebastian discovered her absence an hour later.
The bed was untouched.
The note unmistakable.
For the first time in years, something close to panic gripped him.
His phone buzzed.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
She made a mistake. Fix it.
Sebastian stared at the message, fury rising.
No, he said aloud, to no one and everyone. You did.
He looked out over the city—vast, powerful, unforgiving.
And realized, too late, that the one thing he had never learned was how to protect someone without owning them.