“She doesn’t. Her mother’s PR team runs a gate. We run another. What makes it through is what they decide is useful.”
Massie Thorne deciding what my sub was allowed to read about herself made my jaw lock. The idea of anyone else editingthe reflection my girl saw felt wrong in my bones. That was my job. Daddy’s job. I was supposed to be the one catching the poison before it hit her.
But here? I couldn’t put my hand over six hundred thousand mouths. Couldn’t drag every faceless heir into a back room and make him swallow his words. Online, my reach ended where the code started.
I hated that.
One comment caught my eye. Some verified heir had replied to himself with a photo of his hand on a crystal glass, dynasty ring prominent, caption: Closed with the best.
She’d liked it.
My grip tightened on the datapad. That bastard had probably watched her on that balcony, listened to her sell a deal, then decided the correct response was to turn her into a brag.
Nikolai’s voice drifted from my left. “Relax. They’re flirting with a projection. They’re not touching her.”
“Yet,” Rome muttered.
Not helping. Also not wrong. Men like that always wanted closer.
I flicked back to the grid, looking for something else to be angry at before I broke the tablet in half. Another image loaded.
The dress cut low. At her waist, a man’s arm curved possessively, hand resting too close to her stomach. Heavy tattoo work. His head was mostly out of frame, jaw only a slice in the corner.
Intentional crop. Just enough of him to make it look intimate. Just enough to set the comments on fire.
My chest went ice cold.
The caption was some innocuous bullshit about partnerships and legacy. The comments ignored that.
power couple energy
okay but who is HE
this is giving future alliance
the way his hand is sitting on her waist… i’m feral
if that’s the crow heir i’m gonna scream
My vision tunneled on that inked forearm. Her body angled into it, not away. The image made it look like she’d leaned into him, like she trusted the hold. It almost could’ve been me—dark suit, tattooed wrist, claiming grip—except I knew every vein on my own hand. That wasn’t mine.
Veil had turned my worst nightmare into an aesthetic: my girl, soft and laughing, framed by another man’s arm.
Every possessive instinct I had bared its teeth at once. That should have been my hand. My ink. My grip. The only forearm that should’ve ever been photographed touching her waist like that should’ve had a Crow crest burned into the skin.
I dragged the image bigger, hunting for a reflection, a clue, anything that would give me a name to put on the list. The crop stayed stubborn. No face. No clear sigil.
They’d made the entire fucking shot about how good she looked pressed against a man who wasn’t me.
“So who the fuck is that.”
Rome leaned in, squinting. “Relax. It’s probably six different heirs spliced in their heads. Half the comments are conspiracy theories.”
“I’m not asking the comments.”
Luca shifted, looking now instead of just supervising my meltdown. “The profile credit lists three hosts. Could be any of them, could be none of them. PR likes anonymous hands in shots like that. It boosts engagement without making promises.”
My jaw hurt. “They’re using my girl’s body to sell engagement.”
