Elle's Pov
The apartment is dim, lit only by the blue glow of the television. We watch the prerecorded interview in total silence.
On-screen, I look fragile. "I never wanted to go public, but it's important I say my truth," my recorded voice trembles. I dab at a tear. "My past is complicated. I moved from foster home to foster home. I lost sight of who I was. Little Lights Home is my way of giving back the love and stability I never had."
The camera shifts to Damian. He hands me a napkin, his hands gently patting my shoulder. "She has shown incredible strength," he says, his voice a low, convincing anchor. "I'll stand by her."
Then comes the kill shot.
"And…" on-screen, I force a small, watery smile, "we're expecting a baby. Maybe it's God's way of wiping my tears and helping me move forward. But some... some people just can't let go of my past."
Then, I break down completely, burying my face in his shoulder. Damian pulls me close. "Please, respect our privacy during this time," he adds. "Marielle has been through a lot. I just want to see her happy." He leads me off the stage. The screen fades to black.
There's silence in the living room and explosion online. My phone vibrates off the table with notifications; shock, sympathy, heart emojis. Thousands of people now see a soul instead of a scandal.
"I didn't think it would land that hard," I murmur.
Damian doesn't look away from the TV. In the glow of the screen, his jaw is less tight. He looks… grateful.
Outside the broadcast, donations pour in for the foundation. People now see hope and vulnerability, so they respond. The foundation's inbox is filled with pledges, volunteers offering help, messages of love. I didn't think expect this kind of response.
"Looks like I handled your company better than you could," I tease, trying to break the heavy air.
"Don't get used to it," he mutters, but there's a flicker of smile there.
My phone buzzes. Camila, again. I hit ignore, typing a quick message instead:
In the middle of something important. I'll call later.
I set the phone down.
The city hums below us. The apartment feels like its own bubble, cozy and homely. I glance at Damian, seeing not just the CEO, not just the man, but someone equally vulnerable, equally human.
He stands, goes to the bar, grabs two glasses and pours scotch in one. I watch him make a cocktail with precision of a bartender which he pours in the second glass. He returns, handing me the glass of cocktail.
"Those things you said," he begins slowly, sitting beside me. "About the foster homes. Was any of it true?"
I sip my drink, letting the flavor settle on my tongue. It's perfect. "A man who knows how to make a drink for his woman? Dangerous."
He doesn't take the bait. He just watches me.
I exhale. "It was all true. My father died. My mother disappeared. I have a sister but we don't speak."
His expression sharpens. "Elle… I need to be sure nothing else can come back to bite us. I need the names of anyone who might come after you."
I look at the ice in my glass. "You know, you sound just like my foster parents. 'Tell me everything so I can protect you.' That's always how the control started."
"That isn't what I meant."
"Maybe not," I say, looking at the empty glass in my hand. "But you live for control, Damian. And I've spent my life trying to stop people from taking mine."
He doesn't argue this time. He leans back, his shoulders sagging this time. "Control is all I know. You build walls to keep things predictable… until someone like you walks in and wrecks the system."
"Is that what I am? A wrecking ball?"
"Definitely."
Something shifts between us. The air isn't thick with a deal anymore; it's thick with the truth.
I rest the glass on the table and look at him. "All this control... that's your armor, right?"
He hesitates. "My mother used to say I'd choke on my ambition," he says, his voice cracking just a fraction. "When she died, I realized I never knew her. I knew only numbers, her stocks. Not her."
"Maybe we're both pretending," I murmur. "Your control. My survival."
He looks at me, his eyes dark. "We've committed to this now. People believe we're engaged and now, expecting. We have to make it real."
"Real how?"
"Public appearances. No contradictions. Starting with your Little Lights gala in two days."
My heart jumps. "You're coming?"
"I'll be there. But don't expect more funding from me. You have plenty of donors now." He pauses, pinning me with a look. "Especially that one generous donor. D.C.?"
The air freezes in my lungs. He did his homework. He found the connection to my mother's money.
"You did your homework," I whisper.
He shrugs, eyes locked on mine. "I don't tie my life, or my company, to someone without knowing her entire history."
"You're punishing me?"
"I'm being realistic. You have enough. This is your consequence for the identity scandal."
I huff a small laugh. "Petty. Fine. Bring your rich friends."
"I will."
We sit in the quiet hum of the city, the world outside believing our biggest lie.
Damian looks down at his glass, swirling the scotch. "I got a call before the broadcast. From my Cousin."
I raise a brow. "Checking in on the scandal?"
"No," he says, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Zoe wouldn't stop asking about you. Apparently, the 'pretty girl who cleaned her up' is all she's talked about since dinner."
The tightness in my chest softens. "Awww, she's a sweet kid. Too good for your family."
"She wants to see you again," he continues, his voice dropping an octave. "She heard the news and she told her mother she can't wait to meet the baby."
The silence that follows is heavy. The lie was just a strategy five minutes ago; now, it feels like a weight. I look away, unable to meet his eyes. "We're going to break that little girl's heart, aren't we?"
"Maybe," Damian says quietly. He looks at me then, really looks at me. "She likes you, Elle. She doesn't like anyone."
I giggle like a two-year old. "Must be my charm."
"Must be," he agrees. "You think they'll keep believing it? The baby. Us."
"People believe what makes them feel something," I say. "And tonight, we made them feel everything."
"You did that."
"No," I correct. "We did."
He gives a tired laugh. "For once, we're on the same side."
"Strange feeling."
"Not terrible," he admits. He stands up, heading toward the hall. "Get some rest. Tomorrow it continues."
"And you?"
"I don't sleep much."
"You should try," I say softly. "Control is easier when you aren't exhausted."
He pauses in the doorway, his silhouette tall and imposing. "You're not easy to forget, Elle."
He disappears, and the soft click of his door echoes through the apartment.
I stare out at the glowing skyline. For the first time in weeks, I don't feel like I'm running. I feel alive.
It's a terrifying feeling.