Chapter 17: The Storm That Didn't Ask for Permission
The backlash arrived at dawn.
It didn't knock. It didn't warn. It flooded in through every screen, every channel, every whispered conversation happening beyond the walls meant to keep me safe. My message—my words—had become fuel, twisted into arguments I hadn't made and accusations I hadn't implied.
Some called it brave.
Others called it manipulation disguised as innocence.
A few called it a declaration of war.
I lay awake long before sunrise, staring at the ceiling, listening to Lucien's steady breathing beside me. He slept lightly these days, like someone trained to wake at the first sign of danger. I wondered if he felt it too—the shift in the air, the pressure building like clouds before a storm.
When his phone buzzed at 5:47 a.m., he was already reaching for it.
"They've convened an emergency session," he said after a moment, voice low. "Not just the board. External partners too."
I sat up. "Because of me."
"Because you spoke," he corrected.
"That's worse."
"Yes," he agreed calmly. "For them."
By breakfast, the house felt like a command center. Security doubled. Calls stacked. Names I didn't recognize echoed through the halls—investors, legal teams, public relations strategists who spoke in careful tones that never quite hid their panic.
I felt invisible and exposed at the same time.
Lucien disappeared into meetings, but before he did, he stopped in front of me, hands resting on the back of a chair.
"No matter what you hear today," he said, "don't assume silence means defeat."
I nodded, though my chest felt tight.
Hours passed.
I tried to study. Tried to read. Tried to exist like a normal girl in a very abnormal life. But my mind kept circling the same fear: What if I had gone too far? Not for myself—but for him.
By midday, the first crack turned into a fracture.
A press conference was announced.
Not by Lucien.
By his family.
I watched it live from the living room, heart pounding as familiar faces took the stage, dressed in calm authority. They spoke of responsibility. Of image. Of protecting legacies. They spoke around me without ever saying my name.
Then came the line that froze my blood.
"We are considering all legal avenues to ensure that emotional decisions do not compromise long-term stability."
Legal avenues.
Lucien arrived home twenty minutes later, his expression unreadable.
"They're threatening annulment," I said before he could speak.
"Yes," he replied.
The word hung heavy between us.
"I won't let them," he added immediately.
"I know," I said. "But can they force it?"
Lucien exhaled slowly. "They can try. They'll frame it as protection. Mental well-being. Influence."
"Mine?" I asked bitterly.
"Yours," he confirmed. "And by extension, mine."
I stood. "Then I'll fight."
Lucien's eyes sharpened. "This won't be clean."
"I'm already dirty in their story," I replied. "I won't stay silent just to look respectable."
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he nodded once, decisive.
"Then we do this properly."
The strategy meeting that followed was different.
No lawyers talking over me. No advisors dismissing my presence. I sat at the table, listened to every possibility laid bare—court battles, smear campaigns, character assassinations dressed up as concern.
"They'll dig into your past," one advisor warned. "Friends. Family. Weaknesses."
I swallowed. "Let them."
Lucien glanced at me. "You don't have to be fearless."
"I know," I said. "But I won't be passive."
That evening, the storm turned personal.
My mother's health records were leaked.
Not in full—just enough to suggest instability in my family background. Enough to imply that weakness ran in my blood. Enough to hurt.
I locked myself in the bathroom and shook.
Lucien found me sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, rage and grief tangled so tightly I couldn't tell which one I was feeling more.
"They crossed a line," I said hoarsely.
"Yes," he replied. His voice was cold now. Focused. "And they won't cross another."
He held me until the shaking stopped.
That night, I didn't cry myself to sleep.
I stayed awake.
Thinking.
The next morning, I made another decision.
Not impulsive. Not emotional. Deliberate.
I requested to speak.
Live.
No edits. No delays.
Lucien stared at me when I told him. "That's dangerous."
"So is letting them define me," I said.
He searched my face. "Once you do this, there's no retreat."
"I know."
The broadcast reached millions.
I didn't wear anything dramatic. I didn't smile or cry. I spoke plainly—about choice, about learning, about how young people are often dismissed the moment they show agency.
I spoke about love without romanticizing it. About fear without apologizing for it. About how power panics when it can't control the narrative.
I ended with one sentence.
"I am not a problem to be managed. I am a person who chose."
The silence afterward was deafening.
Then the reaction hit like thunder.
Support surged louder than before. Not just from fans or strangers—but from voices that mattered. Writers. Advocates. Professionals who recognized the pattern of control and called it out for what it was.
Lucien watched the numbers rise in real time, awe and disbelief crossing his face.
"They underestimated you," he said quietly.
"Yes," I replied. "And that was their mistake."
But victory didn't feel like celebration.
It felt like standing in the eye of a storm, knowing the winds could still shift.
That night, as we stood together on the balcony, city lights stretching endlessly below, I leaned into Lucien's side.
"Are you afraid?" I asked.
"Yes," he said honestly. "But not of losing power."
"Then what?"
"Of how much this will change us," he replied.
I thought about everything behind us—and everything still ahead.
"We were never meant to stay unchanged," I said.
Lucien smiled faintly. "No. We weren't."
Far below, the city kept moving, unaware of how many battles were being fought in quiet rooms and open hearts.
The storm hadn't passed.
But it had revealed something important.
I wasn't just surviving it anymore.
I was learning how to stand inside it.
And with hundreds of chapters of life still unwritten, one truth settled firmly in my chest—
This was only the beginning.