Victor's office was dark except for the cold blue glow of his laptop screen.
The photos loaded one after another—high-resolution, merciless.
Alicia smiling up at Raymond in the café booth, head resting on his shoulder.
Their joined hands on the table, rings catching sunlight.
The final shot: her rising on her toes in front of the car, kissing him slow and deep while the last paparazzo's flash lit them like a spotlight.
No panic.
No ducking.
No retreat.
Just defiance wrapped in quiet certainty.
Victor's fist closed around the crystal tumbler until his knuckles whitened. The scotch inside sloshed, untouched.
He had expected cracks. Tears in private. A rushed statement from Raymond's PR team. A visible flinch from the bartender-turned-wife.
Instead they had walked out holding hands like lovers on honeymoon.
He slammed the laptop shut. The sound cracked through the room.
"Fuck."
He paced to the window—city lights blurring into streaks of white and gold below. His reflection stared back: jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, the same expression he had worn thirty years ago when his father announced Raymond's father would take over the company instead of him.
Second place again.
Always second.
He snatched his phone. Dialed Raymond's private line.
It rang once. Twice.
Raymond answered on the third ring. Voice calm. Almost bored.
"Uncle."
"Don't 'uncle' me," Victor snapped. "I saw the photos. Cute little performance. Very convincing."
A pause. Then Raymond's low chuckle—dangerous, controlled.
"If you're calling to congratulate us, save it. We're busy."
Victor's grip tightened. "Busy playing house while the board watches you parade your paid actress around like she's the love of your life."
Another beat of silence.
When Raymond spoke again, the boredom was gone.
Replaced by ice.
"Careful, Victor."
Victor laughed—short, bitter. "Careful? You're the one who should be careful. The charter doesn't care how good you are at kissing for the cameras. It cares about legitimacy. And this—" he spat the word, "—smells like desperation. A rushed wedding. A nobody bride. No prenup rumors. No society engagement. The board's already whispering. One more push and they'll call an emergency vote. I'll be sitting in your chair by next quarter."
Raymond's voice dropped lower. Lethal.
"You want to push? Push. Dig. Leak whatever you think you have. But hear me clearly: Alicia is not a pawn. She is my wife. And if you come for her—if you breathe one more word that makes her feel small, or unsafe, or less than—she will be the least of your problems."
Victor's laugh was colder this time. "Threats now? From the golden boy?"
"Not a threat," Raymond said quietly. "A promise. You've spent your life resenting what you never earned. Don't make the mistake of thinking you can take what's mine now."
The line went dead.
Victor stared at the phone in his hand. His pulse hammered in his ears.
He hurled the tumbler against the wall. Crystal exploded in a shower of shards and amber liquid.
Breathing hard, he crossed to his desk. Opened the bottom drawer. Pulled out a slim folder—the PI's deeper background on Alicia. Runaway reports. Old school records. A grainy photo from a bus station security camera fifteen years ago: a teenage girl with a backpack, looking over her shoulder like she expected pursuit.
Victor's lips curled.
If Raymond wanted to play protective husband, Victor would give him something worth protecting against.
He picked up his phone again.
This time he dialed Reynolds—the tabloid stringer.
"New tip," he said when the line connected. "Deeper. Personal. I want it everywhere by morning."
He opened the folder.
And began to read aloud.
...
Sophie hated her father's study.
It always smelled like cigar smoke and old ambition—thick, choking, the kind of scent that clung to clothes and made her feel small even when she was alone. She avoided it on principle, but tonight she had come looking for her charger. Victor had "borrowed" it again without asking.
The door was cracked open just enough for light to spill into the hallway.
She heard his voice before she saw him—low, sharp, the tone he used when he thought no one important was listening.
"…by morning. I want it everywhere. Runaway at fifteen. Bus station photo. Make it look like she was running from something worse than a bad stepdad. Tie it to the rushed wedding. 'Desperate measures for a desperate man.' Yes. Triple if you can get it front-page."
Sophie froze.
Her father's back was to the door. He paced slowly, phone pressed to his ear, free hand clenched at his side.
She should have left. Turned around. Pretended she hadn't heard.
Instead she stayed—heart hammering, phone forgotten—and listened as Victor ended the call with a satisfied grunt.
"Finally," he muttered to the empty room. "Let's see how long that little love story lasts when the world knows what she really is."
Sophie's stomach twisted.
She backed away silently, bare feet silent on the hardwood, until she reached the hallway corner. Then she ran—up the stairs, into her room, door shut, locked.
She sat on the edge of her bed, phone trembling in her hands.
Alicia's number was already saved—from the one awkward family dinner, when Alicia had slipped her a note with a smile: *Text me if you ever need to talk. No pressure.*
Sophie stared at the screen for a long moment.
Her father had raised her to believe family came first. Loyalty. Duty. But the longer she lived under his roof, the more she realized his version of family meant control.
Alicia had never once tried to control her.
She had listened when Sophie complained about curfews.
She had laughed at Sophie's dumb memes.
She had looked at Sophie like she was a person, not a pawn.
Sophie's thumb hovered over the message icon.
Then she typed.
**Sophie:** Hey. It's Sophie.
**Sophie:** I just overheard my dad on the phone. He's leaking stuff about you. Your past. The runaway thing. He wants it in the papers tomorrow.
**Sophie:** I'm sorry. I didn't know he was going to do this.
**Sophie:** I don't want to be part of hurting you. Or Uncle Ray.
She hit send before she could second-guess it.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
**Alicia:** Sophie?
**Alicia:** Thank you for telling me.
**Alicia:** Are you okay? Where are you right now?
Sophie exhaled shakily. Her fingers flew.
**Sophie:** In my room. Door locked. He doesn't know I heard.
**Sophie:** I'm scared he's going to ruin everything. He's so angry lately. Like he hates Uncle Ray more than anything.
Another pause. Then Alicia's reply came through—calm, steady.
**Alicia:** He's not going to ruin anything.
**Alicia:** We knew he might try something like this. Raymond's already on it.
**Alicia:** But listen to me, okay? You did the right thing telling me. That took courage.
**Alicia:** If you ever feel unsafe, or if he gets worse, text me. Or call. Anytime. I mean it. You can come here if you need to. No questions.
Sophie's eyes stung.
**Sophie:** You're not mad at me?
**Alicia:** Not even a little.
**Alicia:** You're not your dad, Sophie. You're you. And I like you. A lot.
Sophie stared at the words until they blurred.
**Sophie:** Thanks.
**Sophie:** I'm sorry again.
**Alicia:** Don't be. Just stay safe tonight. Text me in the morning?
**Sophie:** I will.
She set the phone down. Curled up on her bed.
For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel completely alone in her own house.
Downstairs, Victor poured another drink—certain his plan was flawless.
Upstairs, Sophie stared at the ceiling and made a quiet decision.
She was done choosing sides.
Tomorrow she would tell her father she was spending the weekend with friends.
And she would go to Alicia and Raymond.