The editor of City Insider looks distinctly uncomfortable sitting across from me in the private room of an exclusive restaurant where the staff values discretion above all else. Malcolm Peters is a slight man with nervous hands and the perpetually haunted expression of someone one missed deadline away from unemployment—which, according to my research, isn't far from the truth.
"Mr. Devereux, I appreciate the invitation, but as I mentioned on the phone, our legal department has reviewed the photos and found no grounds for?—"
"Let's dispense with the pretense," I interrupt, voice pleasant despite the ice beneath it. "You published intrusive photographs of a private citizen leaving my residence. You implied thather professional success stems from our personal relationship rather than her considerable talent. You turned a hardworking small business owner into tabloid fodder for a momentary circulation boost."
He shifts in his seat, discomfort evident. "Public figures such as yourself?—"
"I'm a public figure," I agree. "Clara Benson is not. Or wasn't, until your publication made her one without consent."
"The public has a right?—"
"The public has no rights regarding Clara's privacy." My tone remains conversational, though the temperature seems to drop several degrees. "Now, let's discuss your publication's future. Or rather, whether it has one."
I slide a folder across the table. He opens it with visible trepidation, eyes widening as he scans the contents—detailed financials of City Insider's parent company, records of recent advertising cancellations, and documentation of the building lease that houses their offices.
"How did you?—"
"I acquired controlling interest in your parent company this afternoon," I inform him, the transaction having been completed hours ago at considerable expense. "I also purchased your building from its previous landlord. Additionally, I've spoken with your three largest advertisers, who have expressed concern about being associated with publications that invade private citizens' privacy."
His face pales to an unhealthy gray. "That's—that's not possible. The acquisition would require board approval, shareholder votes?—"
"All obtained," I assure him, though the methods required to expedite the process in a single day are best left unexamined. "Your publication now faces three options: immediate shutdown, continued operation under new editorial directionthat prioritizes actual journalism, or a third path we might negotiate depending on your cooperation."
The man looks shell-shocked, blindsided by the speed and comprehensiveness of my response. I almost pity him, this small cog in a machine that didn't recognize the danger of targeting what I value most.
"What do you want?" he asks finally, voice barely above a whisper.
"A full retraction. An apology to Clara Benson for the invasion of privacy and unprofessional insinuations. And a guarantee that her name and image will never appear in your publication again without her explicit written consent."
"That's all?" Disbelief colors his voice.
"For now." I lean forward slightly. "But understand this clearly, Mr. Peters: If another photograph, another word, another whisper about Clara appears in any publication under your control, the consequences will make today's demonstration seem like a gentle warning."
He nods rapidly, already calculating how to salvage his career from this unexpected development. "I'll draft the retraction immediately. The apology as well."
"Good." I stand, considering the matter settled. "I'll expect to review them before publication."
As I leave the restaurant, I feel no satisfaction, no triumph—only a cold certainty that this response, while measured by my standards, still crosses lines Clara might consider excessive. I haven't technically broken my promise; there will be no public spectacle, no headlines about Alexander Devereux's revenge campaign. Just quiet, ruthless protection of what matters most to me, exercised through channels invisible to anyone without access to corporate acquisition records or property deeds.
My phone vibrates with an incoming call—Clara. I consider letting it go to voicemail, unwilling to lie to her about my eveningactivities yet equally unwilling to admit to them. Instead, I answer.
"Hey," she says, her voice warm despite the day's stress. "Just checking in. You disappeared after walking me home."
"Business matters," I say, which isn't entirely untrue. "How are you holding up?"
"Better. The bakery closed without incident. No more photographers lurking, at least that I could see." Relief colors her voice. "Thank you for respecting my wishes about not escalating things."
Guilt twists briefly in my chest, though not enough to generate regret about my actions. "Of course."
"Where are you now?" she asks.
I look out at the city lights, at the dark windows of the building that houses City Insider, where editors are likely frantically rewriting tomorrow's issue. "Just wrapping up a meeting. Should I come over?"
"Please," she says simply, the single word carrying a trust I'm not entirely sure I've earned.
As I slide into the back seat of my waiting car, I consider the contradiction of my position—honoring Clara's wishes while simultaneously taking actions she might disapprove of. But some instincts run too deep to override completely, even for her. The need to protect, to establish consequences, to ensure that those who harm what I value pay an appropriate price—these are fundamental to who I am, to how I've survived and thrived in a world that rarely rewards hesitation or mercy.
Clara deserves her privacy. Deserves respect for her accomplishments. Deserves to build her business on talent rather than gossip about her personal life.
