Tracy never imagined cameras could feel like weapons. But when she stepped out of Alex’s car and into the wall of flashing bulbs, she realized she had underestimated their power.
“Tracy! Over here! Are you really engaged to Alex Knight?”
“Is this a contract marriage?”
“Tracy, how much is he paying you?”
The questions weren’t curious—they were knives, sharp and cutting, dressed in microphones.
She froze, her pulse hammering in her ears. Alex’s hand pressed firmly against her lower back, steadying her. His voice brushed her ear, low and commanding. “Ignore them. Keep walking.”
But her legs felt like stone.
The PR team had insisted on this appearance—damage control, they called it. To show unity. To silence the rumors. Alex had agreed, of course. Alex always had control. But standing her
