The morning after the rain, Serena woke to the soft hum of the city. Elias's side of the bed was empty, but faint traces of his cologne lingered on the sheets. She slipped out from under the covers and padded barefoot into the kitchen, where she found him standing at the counter, phone pressed to his ear.
"No, you tell the press release team they don't get to run that headline without my approval," he said, voice clipped. "Yes. I'll send revisions myself."
He ended the call and set the phone down, jaw tight.
"What now?" she asked, pulling one of his shirts over her sleepwear before pouring herself coffee.
"The Post wants to run an 'inside look' at our marriage. Some genius thought it would be a great PR angle after the bakery photo went viral."
Serena gave him a flat look over her mug. "Inside look? That sounds like them asking how many pillows we sleep with and whether you snore."
He huffed a laugh despite himself. "Exactly. Which is why I told them no."
But she saw the tension lingering in his shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck like the conversation had been the first of many that morning.
"They'll find something else to pick apart," she said.
"I know," he admitted. "And Isabelle will make sure of it."
The name was like a stone dropped into the room, pulling the air with it.
"She called me last night," Elias continued, watching her closely. "Said she wanted to 'clear the air.'"
"And did she?"
He shook his head. "She asked if you were happy."
Serena set her cup down slowly. "And you told her?"
"That your happiness is none of her business," he said without hesitation. "But she's digging, Serena. I can feel it. And she's not playing by any rules."
The tension simmered between them, unspoken questions hanging in the air. Serena hated how easily Isabelle could get under her skin—not because she feared Elias's loyalty, but because she hated being the subject of someone else's game.
"I can handle her," Serena said.
"I know you can," Elias replied. "But you shouldn't have to."
Their eyes locked for a moment too long, and something in the air shifted. The conversation didn't end, but it changed—morphing from sharp edges into something quieter, charged.
Elias stepped closer, his hand brushing hers on the counter. "You didn't sign up for this circus."
Serena tilted her head slightly. "Maybe not. But I did sign up for you."
The faintest smile touched his lips, and then he was kissing her—slow at first, like a question, then deeper, like an answer. Her hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.
The kiss wasn't an escape from the conversation—it was part of it, an acknowledgment of everything they couldn't yet solve but refused to let pull them apart.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "I want to keep you out of all this, but I can't promise I can."
"Then don't keep me out," she whispered. "Keep me in it, with you."
That night, they attended a charity gala—one of the first events they'd been photographed at since the bakery incident. The ballroom glittered with chandeliers, the hum of conversation a constant undercurrent. Cameras flashed the moment they entered, and Serena felt Elias's hand tighten reassuringly at the small of her back.
For the first hour, things went smoothly—polite conversations, posed smiles, light champagne. But then she spotted Isabelle near the bar, her hair swept up, diamonds catching the light. She was speaking to a cluster of board members, her laughter carrying over the music.
Serena's stomach tightened. She didn't want to give Isabelle the satisfaction of coming to her, so she stayed by Elias's side. But Isabelle, of course, made her way over.
"Serena," she said warmly, almost too warmly. "You look… radiant."
Serena smiled politely. "Isabelle."
"I hear the bakery is doing well," Isabelle continued. "It must be wonderful, having so much free time to… bake."
Elias's hand moved subtly against Serena's back, a silent signal to let him handle it. But Serena's voice was calm when she replied, "It is. And it's even more wonderful not having to spend that time in boardrooms pretending to care about someone else's numbers."
For the briefest moment, Isabelle's smile faltered.
"Well," she said, turning to Elias, "you've certainly chosen someone with spirit."
"I have," Elias said, his tone cool but unmistakably protective. "And I intend to keep her."
The rest of the night passed without another direct confrontation, but Serena could feel Isabelle's gaze on her more than once.
Back at the penthouse, Elias poured them each a glass of wine. She took hers, sipping slowly, letting the warmth spread through her.
"You were perfect tonight," he said.
She set her glass down. "I wasn't trying to be perfect. I was trying to be me."
"And that's exactly what unsettles them," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her again.
This time, there was no slow build. His hands framed her face, his mouth urgent against hers, the kind of kiss that left no room for doubt about where they stood. She melted into him, feeling the tension of the evening dissolve into heat between them.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing harder, and Elias's eyes held that same determined glint from the gala.
"They can keep talking," he said, his voice low. "But they'll never take this from us."
And for the first time that night, Serena believed him.