Chapter 5
1045 Words
The Spotlight Burns
(Leona / Dorian)
She clicked it open, and froze.
It was a press release.
Announcing her as Dorian Vale’s wife.
To the world.
With photos.
Her name.
Her background.
And a glowing quote from Dorian about her passion for community, her strength, and their shared future.
Jazz leaned over her shoulder. Holy crap.
Leona’s heart pounded.
She had not agreed to any of this.
She had not even read the statement before it went public.
And worst of all?
The headline was not just about their marriage.
It was about her.
Leona’s phone vibrated on the table once, twice, a constant hum that she couldn’t ignore. The small device had become a beacon of chaos overnight. Notifications from every app, every email inbox, every social network relentlessly poured in.
She stared at the screen in disbelief.
Her name was everywhere.
Billionaire marries charity worker fairytale or corporate PR stunt?
Leona Hart, who is this mysterious new Mrs. Vale?
Is this real love or just a business arrangement?
The headlines were endless, and the opinions were louder.
Jazz sat beside her on the worn couch of the art center, phone in hand, scrolling through the firestorm online.
"You are trending worldwide," Jazz said, her voice low with a mixture of wonder and concern.
Leona rubbed her eyes and let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.
How did this get out without me knowing? She muttered.
Jazz shrugged, her expression turning serious. Dorian’s world runs at a different speed. He has an agenda, and it looks like you’re a big part of it.
The small studio where they sat, once a refuge from the battles of the outside world, felt suffocating. Every notification felt like a new arrow aimed at her.
Messages poured in some supportive
Love seeing someone stand up to the elite. Go, Leona!
This marriage is the best thing that could have happened to the community.
Others scathing
Using charity as a front for billionaires. Disgusting.
Sellout.
She is just another pawn in Vale’s game.
The board of Vale Global, long rumored to despise her interference, made their displeasure clear in leaked memos and anonymous tips to journalists.
Leona leaned back, numb, the weight of their gazes, both public and private, bearing down on her.
Meanwhile, Dorian sat behind the sleek, reflective surface of his desk, watching the social media chaos unfold on multiple screens.
His phone vibrated with urgent texts from board members.
Explain the press release immediately!
We need to control the narrative before the stock tanks.
Who leaked this? This was supposed to be discreet.
But Dorian’s mind was not on the corporate fallout. It was on Leona.
She is not just an asset.
For the first time, she was a liability in a way he could not control.
He reached for his phone and dialed.
Back at the art center, Leona’s phone rang, flashing Dorian’s name.
She hesitated, then answered.
Leona? His voice was low, calm but threaded with something she could not place. Concern? Vulnerability?
Why? She demanded. Why announce our marriage to the world without telling me? Without my consent?
There was a pause.
Because you are stronger than you think, he said. The world needs to see that.
Or you want to control the narrative.
"No," he replied softly. I wanted to protect you.
Protect me? By making me public enemy number one?
Dorian exhaled slowly.
From them.
She blinked.
Who?
The board. The vultures circled the company. They see you as a threat.
Leona’s pulse quickened.
"They will use you to get to me," he said. I can not let that happen.
A silence hung between them.
Are you protecting me now? She asked quietly.
"For reasons I do not yet understand," he admitted.
The next morning, the front doors of the art center were a mess.
Broken glass littered the concrete.
Spray-painted threats screamed across the brick,
Stay away, charity girl, stay away.
The community was shaken. Volunteers gathered to clean and tidy up, but the message was clear.
This was a warning, stating that Leona should stay away,
Leona ran her fingers over the jagged edges of the broken glass, feeling anger ignite in her chest.
She was not about to back down.
Later that day, Dorian appeared unexpectedly.
Jazz answered the door, surprised.
Leona was in the back room with Malik, sketching ideas for a benefit event coming up.
When she saw Dorian standing in the doorway, she was breathing heavily due to anger.
He looked different up close, less like the untouchable billionaire and more like a man burdened by something unseen.
Leona, he said quietly.
She did not answer.
He stepped closer.
"This war," he continued, is bigger than you.
She met his eyes, fierce and unyielding.
"I don't want your pity," she said.
It is not a pity.
It sounds like it.
It is a promise.
Leona hesitated, then softened just enough.
Whatever comes, he said, "I am in this with you".
As they stood amidst the chaos of broken glass and hopeful voices, neither saw the shadow lingering beyond the windows.
Someone was watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
That night, after Dorian left the art center, Leona sat alone in her small office, the city lights casting long shadows across her desk. The weight of the day settled over her like a heavy fog. She thought about the smashed glass, the hateful words spray-painted on her beloved center, and the sudden, unwanted spotlight thrust upon her.
Her phone buzzed again, this time, a message from an unknown number:
You are playing a dangerous game, Mrs. Vale. Watch your back.
Leona’s fingers trembled slightly as she stared at the words. A warning? A threat? Or just the paranoia creeping in with the chaos?
She locked the phone and slid it into her drawer.
No one would intimidate her. Not now. Not ever.
But as the silence pressed on, she could not shake the bothering feeling that the war she had just stepped into was far more personal than she realized.
Outside, somewhere in the shadows, the watcher smiled wide.
And somewhere high above the city, Dorian stared out at the skyline, feeling something he had not in years: fear.
Not for his empire.
For her.
- Writer
