Nate adjusted his cuff as he stepped out of Jazz’s apartment building, the morning air sharper than usual. For the last hour, he’d played the role of the boyfriend trying to ease bruised feelings. Now, with the car door closing behind him, that mask slipped away. The city noise faded beneath the hum of the engine, and his mind pivoted to the other battlefield—the one where enemies didn’t throw tantrums, they threw daggers wrapped in rumors.
“Put me through.” he told his driver. Within seconds, his assistant’s calm voice filled the car.
“Files are in your inbox, sir. Screenshots of what started circulating this morning. Blogs. Forums. Anonymous tip-offs. Someone’s feeding them.”
Nate scrolled, jaw tightening. His name linked with “illegitimate heir.” Sophia’s photo splashed beside cheap
