"How long were you stranded?"
"Three weeks." The words come out rougher than I intend. "Twenty-one days of survival. Building shelter, finding food, trying to stay alive."
Elena's gaze moves to our joined hands. "And during that time, you fell in love?"
The question hangs in the air, weighted with implications. Aria's fingers tighten around mine, and I see her throat work as she swallows.
"I don't know if it was love at first," she says quietly. "But there was something. A connection. When you're facing death together, when you're depending on each other for survival, barriers come down. You see people for who they really are."
"And who is Nikolai Alekseev when he's not running a business empire?" Elena asks, her pen moving across her notepad.
Aria glances at me, and the expression on her face makes heat flood through my veins. "He's someone who quotes Russian poetry while building a shelter. Who knows about art and architecture. Who took the impact when we hit the rocks to shield my body." Her voice drops to something intimate. "He's more than what people think."
The way she defends me, even now, even knowing what I am, makes something crack open in my chest. I lift her hand to my lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles that's both possessive and tender.
"The photographs suggest a very physical relationship," Elena says carefully. "Some have questioned the timing of your pregnancy announcement."
"The baby is mine." The words come out cold, absolute. "Anyone who questions that can take it up with me directly."
Elena's eyebrow raises fractionally at the threat underlying my tone, but she doesn't back down. "There are rumors thatthe photographs have been digitally altered. That they've been manipulated to appear more intimate than reality."
"We're having that investigated." I keep my voice level, controlled. "But regardless of what the photographs show, the truth is simple. Aria saved my life. We survived together. And yes, we became intimate. That's not a scandal. That's human nature."
"What about your business operations?" Elena shifts topics smoothly. "There are allegations of organized crime, territory disputes, violence."
"I run a legitimate import-export business." The lie comes easily, practiced over years of deflecting similar questions. "The allegations are exactly that. Allegations. Never proven. Never substantiated."
Aria's hand tightens around mine, and I feel her body tense slightly. She knows I'm lying, knows exactly what my business entails, but she doesn't contradict me. She sits there looking like the perfect supportive partner.
The interview continues for another hour, Elena asking questions we've prepared for and a few we haven't. But Aria handles herself with grace, her responses genuine enough to be believable while carefully avoiding anything that might incriminate me or the organization.
When Elena finally packs up her equipment and leaves, promising the article will run tomorrow and air first thing in the morning, I pull Aria against my chest and breathe in the scent of her hair.
"You were perfect," I murmur against her temple.
"I feel like I just lied to the entire city." Her voice is muffled against my shirt.
"You told them what they needed to hear." My hands slide down to her waist, pulling her closer. "There's a difference."
She pulls back enough to meet my gaze, and the conflict in her dark eyes makes guilt twist in my chest. "Is there? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like I just helped you cover up who you really are."
"You helped us survive." I cup her jaw, my thumb brushing across her lower lip. "That's all that matters."
The article runs the next morning, and the response is immediate. Social media explodes with sympathy for our survival story, with admiration for Aria's bravery, with romantic speculation about love blooming from tragedy. The narrative shifts exactly as I planned, the photographs reframed as evidence of human connection rather than scandal.
By afternoon, my phone is ringing constantly. Interview requests. Book deals. Movie offers. Everyone wants a piece of our story, wants to capitalize on the romance that captured public imagination.
I'm reviewing the latest batch of requests when Cyril appears in my study doorway, his gray eyes cold with something that makes my stomach tighten with instinct.
"We have a problem, Boss." His voice is carefully neutral, which makes the words that follow hit like bullets. "The interview worked too well. There are reporters camped outside your gate. Dozens of them. Cameras, satellite trucks, the whole circus. It's making it impossible to conduct business without being photographed."
I move to the window and look down at the street below. He's right. The media presence is overwhelming, a sea of cameras and microphones all pointed at my home like weapons.
"The other families are getting nervous," Cyril continues. "They're saying the attention is dangerous. That you're compromising operational security for a woman."
My jaw tightens as I watch another news van pull up to join the circus outside my gate. "How nervous?"
Cyril's expression goes carefully blank, and the sudden absence of emotion tells me everything I need to know. "Nervous enough that three captains have requested a formal council meeting. They want to discuss whether your judgment has been compromised."
