The corridor swallowed Amber's footsteps, but the echo of her words lingered in Alexander's office long after the door shut.
This changes things.
Alex stood where he was, jacket still draped over the back of his chair, tie loosened in a way he rarely allowed. The city beyond the glass wall pulsed with light and motion, oblivious to the fracture forming inside him. Control had always been his armor—clean lines, clear rules, predictable outcomes. Tonight, for the first time, it felt thin.
His phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
By the third vibration, he already knew.
He picked it up.
Trending Topic #1: Gareth Heiress Linked to Wilson CEO—Secret Deal or Sudden Romance?
A muscle tightened in his jaw.
The article loaded quickly, too quickly, as if it had been waiting for him.
Blurry photos. A shadowed angle. Amber's profile unmistakable despite the grain. Him beside her, his hand hovering too close to her back to be coincidence, too intimate to be denied. The caption speculated freely—late-night meetings, private exits, "sources close to the Wilson Group."
Alex scrolled.
Another post. Another angle. A video this time—short, shaky, but damning enough.
The comments were brutal.
Calculated.
Gold digger.
Power play.
She finally caught one.
He finally broke.
Alex locked the phone and set it down slowly, as though sudden movement might shatter something else.
So this was how it began.
—
Amber didn't stop walking until she reached the elevator.
The doors slid shut, sealing her inside the mirrored box, and only then did she exhale. The breath came out sharper than she intended, her reflection staring back at her with eyes too bright, lips pressed too tight.
She lifted her phone without thinking.
Bad idea.
Her screen exploded with notifications—mentions, tags, missed calls. Camila. Three times. Her manager. Unknown numbers. Messages stacking faster than she could read.
She opened the first link.
Her stomach dropped.
The photo wasn't flattering. It wasn't kind. It was suggestive in the way truth didn't need to be. Her body angled slightly toward Alex, his presence close enough to imply familiarity. It told a story she hadn't agreed to tell.
Amber laughed once, short and incredulous.
"So this is how you repay me," she muttered, though she didn't know who she was talking to. Fate. The media. Herself.
The elevator chimed.
She straightened, shoulders back, spine rigid. By the time the doors opened, her expression was set—cool, unimpressed, untouchable. Cameras flashed immediately, the soft clicking turning into a staccato assault as reporters shouted her name.
"Amber! Is it true?"
"Are you dating Alexander Wilson?"
"Was tonight a business meeting—or something more?"
She didn't answer.
She walked.
Each step was measured, deliberate, a performance perfected over years of scrutiny. Her driver appeared at her side, opening the car door just as a final question cut through the noise.
"Are you going to marry him?"
Amber paused.
Just for half a second.
Then she slid into the car and shut the door, the world reduced to silence and tinted glass.
—
By morning, silence was a myth.
The Wilson Group's boardroom buzzed with tension, not conversation. Phones lay face-up on the table, screens glowing with the same headlines, the same images. When Alex entered, the room fell quiet in a way that wasn't respect—it was anticipation.
"Sit," Chairman Rowe said, folding his hands. "We need to talk."
Alex did not sit immediately. He looked at each of them in turn, memorizing faces, measuring reactions.
"I'm aware," he said finally. "I've read the news."
"Good," another director replied. "Then you know the damage this could do."
"Or the leverage," someone else countered.
Alex took his seat.
"This was not authorized," Rowe continued. "Your personal life has become a public variable. Investors are calling. Partners are asking questions. Stability is being questioned."
Alex's fingers curled slightly against the table.
"My personal life has never interfered with—"
"But now it does," Rowe cut in. "You've allowed speculation to fill a vacuum you refused to address for years."
The room hummed with agreement.
Alex leaned back slowly. "Say what you mean."
Rowe held his gaze. "We mean that the narrative must be controlled. Immediately."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
A pause.
Then: "By leaning into it."
Alex laughed, low and humorless.
"You want me to confirm a rumor."
"We want you to protect the company," Rowe said evenly. "If the public believes you're involved with Amber Gareth, then ambiguity is your enemy. Certainty reassures markets."
Alex's expression hardened. "You're asking me to lie."
"We're asking you to commit," another director said. "Publicly."
Alex stood.
"This meeting is over."
—
Amber's apartment was unusually quiet.
She sat at her kitchen island, untouched coffee cooling beside her, tablet propped open with the same headline replaying itself in different fonts. Every outlet had its own spin. Some painted her as the hunter, others as the distraction. None of them asked what she wanted.
Camila paced behind her, phone pressed to her ear, whispering furiously to someone on the other end.
"No, she's not commenting yet… Yes, I know it's bad timing… No, don't issue anything without my approval."
She hung up and turned.
"You need to call him."
Amber didn't look up. "No."
"This is bigger than pride," Camila snapped. "They're already writing your story for you."
Amber's fingers tightened around her mug. "They always do."
Camila softened, stepping closer. "This one is different."
Amber finally looked at her sister. "Because it's true?"
The word hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
Camila hesitated. "Because it could become true if you're not careful."
Amber looked back at the screen.
Alex Wilson's name was everywhere.
She hated how seeing it made something twist in her chest.
Her phone buzzed.
A private number.
She stared at it for a long moment before answering.
"What," she said flatly.
"Come back," Alex said.
She closed her eyes.
"No."
"We need to talk."
"We already did."
"Not about this."
Silence stretched.
Finally, Amber exhaled. "You don't get to summon me like an employee."
"I'm not trying to control you," Alex said, and for the first time, there was something strained beneath his composure. "I'm trying to contain a fire."
"Funny," Amber replied. "You're the one who likes things burning quietly."
Another pause.
Then, quietly: "They're using us."
Amber's grip loosened slightly.
"Who," she asked.
"The board. The media. Anyone who benefits from speculation."
"And you?" she pressed. "What are you using me for, Alex?"
The question landed harder than she expected.
Alex didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was low. "I don't know anymore."
That honesty—raw, unpolished—caught her off guard.
"Meet me," he continued. "One hour. My penthouse. No cameras."
Amber laughed softly. "That's optimistic."
"I'll make it safe."
She hesitated.
Against her better judgment, against every rule she'd built to survive, she found herself saying, "One hour."
—
The penthouse was quiet when she arrived, city lights spilling across glass and steel. Alex stood near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, a man stripped of titles and shields.
"You look like hell," she said.
"You look furious," he replied.
They faced each other, the distance between them charged.
"This changes things," Amber repeated, softer this time.
Alex nodded. "Publicly and privately."
She crossed her arms. "I didn't sign up to be a headline."
"I didn't sign up to need anyone," he said.
Their eyes locked.
Outside, the city watched.
Inside, something fragile and dangerous began to take shape.