My jaw locks. I knew she’d fight. I just don’t care anymore.
“Vivian,” I say softly—dangerously. “If you don’t stand beside me tonight, I will make sure the world believes something far worse than what they’re writing now.”
Her breath catches. Fear ripples through her, fast, sharp, real. I don’t wait for a response.
I turn, walk to the door, and pause only long enough to deliver the final blow without looking back.
“Get dressed. Be ready by seven. Don’t test me again.”
Then I leave her there—shaking, pale, cornered—and I don’t let myself feel a damn thing. I step into the hallway, barely two strides away from her door, before Sylvester appears, blocking my path. His expression is sharp, controlled—too controlled.
“You’re crossing the line,” he says quietly.
I stop. My fingers curl into fists at my sides.
“This isn’t strategy anymore,” Sylvester continues. “It’s punishment. You’re punishing her.”
The words hit harder than I expect.
Because they’re true.
I don’t respond. I can’t.
If I open my mouth, everything inside me—anger, betrayal, the sick ache lodged under my ribs—will spill out.
Sylvester studies me for a beat, waiting for the Dimitri he knows to surface.
He won’t find him today.
“Prepare for a press conference,” I say, my voice flat, deadened, unrecognizable even to my own ears. “It’ll be at seven today. Spread the word. I want it to reach farther than this leak has. Let everyone know we’re telling our side of the story at seven p.m.”
Sylvester inhales sharply, like he wants to argue—but he doesn’t.
He just nods. Slowly. Reluctantly. For a second, I catch the disappointment in his eyes.
Then I push past him and march to my room, every step fueled by fury and cold resolve. If I stop moving, if I let myself think—I’ll break something.
Or go back to her. And I can’t afford either.
Not anymore.
***
The rest of the day drags like chains.
Because instead of running my empire, I’m picking up pieces of my reputation—calling investors, calming boards, assuring partners that the story is a lie.
I don’t assure. I don’t cajole. I command. But look what this leak has reduced me to: begging men who used to tremble when I entered a room.
Pathetic.
My phone buzzes again. Lukin. Of course. As Pakhan, it was only a matter of time before his call comes in.
I answer, and Adrian’s already on the line too, their voices sharp and heavy as they discuss the problem.
“How do you intend to fix this?” Lukin asks.
I tell them the plan—press conference, public unity, force the world to swallow whatever narrative I hand-feed them.
