"We know," Tristan says with a small smile.
"We just happen to think you're worth it," Alex adds.
"Now, who wants to help me decide what my first act as a media mogul should be? I'm thinking of changing their slogan to 'All the news that's fit to print, except anything about Julian Fairfax's love life.'"
Camille laughs against my chest, and I count that as a win. I'd buy a hundred tabloids just to hear that sound.
Later on that evening, I'm halfway through my workout when my security system announces Alex's arrival. That’s odd—it's nearly eight, and Alex typically doesn't drop by unannounced.
I abandon my weights and grab a towel, wiping sweat from my face as I head for the door. One look at his expression tells me something’s up. His face is composed, as always, but there's a coldness in his eyes I rarely see.
"We need to talk," he says, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation.
"Drink?" I offer, already moving toward the bar cart.
"Scotch. Neat."
I pour two fingers of the eighteen-year-old Macallan he prefers and hand him the glass. "What's going on?"
Alex takes a measured sip first before answering. "I know who started this media circus."
The statement hangs in the air for a moment.
"Who?" I ask, though part of me already suspects.
"Fiona." The name drops from his lips like a curse. "Fiona fucking Astor."
A small, bitter laugh escapes me. "Can't say I'm shocked. She and Camille donotseem to get along."
Alex sets his glass down with precise control. "This goes beyond professional jealousy. She's been systematically feeding stories to the press, starting with that first piece in the Daily Herald."
I sink onto the couch, connecting dots I should have seen weeks ago. "How'd you find out?"
"I have a contact there. I called in a favor and got the information.”
"You're sure it's her?"
He pulls out his phone, scrolling briefly before handing it to me. "See for yourself."
The email on the screen is from Fiona's personal account. The language is careful—suggesting "sources close to Alexander Kingsley" rather than claiming direct knowledge—but the intent is clear. She's outlined a story angle about Camille manipulating all three of us, questioning the baby's paternity, even suggesting Camille has a history of targeting wealthy men.
"Jesus," I mutter, feeling my blood pressure rise as I scan the text. "This is calculated character assassination."
"It gets worse." Alex retrieves his phone. "She's been shopping different angles to different outlets. The paternity questions to some, gold-digger narrative to others. She even tried selling a story about Camille having had an affair with a married client."
"That's complete bullshit."
"Of course it is. But tabloids don't care about truth. They care about clicks and eyeballs."
I drain my glass, the burn of alcohol doing little to temper my anger. "So what's the plan? I assume you didn't come here just to share the news."
Alex's expression shifts subtly, and I recognize the look. It's the same one he wears when he's about to destroy a business competitor that's crossed him.
"I'm going to bury her." His voice remains perfectly even, which somehow makes the statement more chilling. "Professionally. Personally. By the time I'm done, she won't be able to get a job designing a doghouse."
"How?"
He sits across from me, leaning forward slightly. "I've already spoken with three of her biggest clients. Turns out they weren't aware that certain unique elements in their designs were 'borrowed' from other designers' portfolios. I've got a friend at the ASID who's very interested in reviewing her work for potential ethics violations."
