THE FIRST LEAK
533 Words
Ariella
The morning after the dinner with Delilah, I wake up to silence. Not peace—Cassian Wolfe’s silence is never peaceful. It’s loaded. Like a loaded gun left on the table.
I make coffee in his stainless-steel kitchen. Everything here is sharp, clean, cold. Like it was designed to make a person feel like a guest in their own life.
He’s already dressed when I find him in the sunroom, reading something on his phone. His black suit is immaculate. His cufflinks probably cost more than my car.
I lean against the glass wall. “Waiting on a disaster?”
His jaw tightens a little. “It’s early. I’m sure one will arrive.”
I take a sip. “If this is our fake domestic life, we need to work on the banter. We’re barely convincing as roommates.”
He looks up. “Then try harder.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
Cassian sets his phone down. “You think this is just about appearances. A few staged photos and public events. But the people watching us—they don’t look for flaws. They look for cracks.”
He walks toward me slowly.
“You’ll smile because they expect it. You’ll wear my name like it fits. And you’ll keep your voice low and your posture straight and your reactions measured.”
I meet his eyes, spine stiff. “You mean, I’ll become a puppet.”
“No,” he says. “A professional.”
The words burn. Because he’s not wrong. And I hate that I understand.
---
By noon, the headlines start to shift.
Not about us—about me.
> Ariella Knox’s family home in foreclosure. Secret debt exposed.
Journalist-turned-fiancée: is Cassian Wolfe funding her silence?
I stare at the screen, pulse pounding. I never told anyone about the foreclosure. Not even my best friend.
Only one person could’ve dug that up.
I march into Cassian’s office without knocking. “Did you leak this?”
He doesn’t look up from his laptop. “No.”
“But you knew.”
“Yes.”
My hands curl into fists. “So you just let it drop, huh? Let the press paint me like a gold-digging mess?”
He finally lifts his gaze. “They already think that. A little proof just makes it believable.”
I step forward. “You said this was protection.”
“And it is,” he says coldly. “But it’s not reputation protection, Ariella. It’s survival. Learn the difference.”
My voice is shaking. “You didn’t have to let them humiliate me.”
“No,” he agrees, standing. “But it works better if they underestimate you.”
I stare at him, stunned.
“This isn’t just a lie,” I whisper. “It’s war.”
He comes closer. His voice drops. “Exactly.”
---
That night, the cameras catch us walking out of a gala. He slips his arm around my waist as the flashbulbs go off.
To them, it looks like affection.
To me, it feels like strategy.
We smile.
We shine.
And behind it all, I feel the slow, silent unraveling of who I used to be.
- Writer
