Chapter twelve
1126 Words
Max's office had that late-afternoon quiet, the kind that made his temples throb. He'd been staring at spreadsheets for the past three hours, numbers bleeding together until they meant nothing. He rolled his shoulders back, reached for his phone.
Just a quick email check. Then he'd wrap up.
The screen lit up with notifications. Too many notifications.
His jaw tightened as he scrolled. News alerts. Social media tags. Messages from people he hadn't spoken to in years.
"What the hell."
The headline blazed across his screen: *CEO of Maxlarm Corporation Marries Single Mother for Publicity Stunt—Insider Claims It's All Fake.*
Below it, photos. Him and Gia leaving the courthouse. Sharon's face blurred but still recognizable. The article dripped with venom, calling Gia an opportunist, a social climber, a woman who'd trapped a wealthy man with a sob story and a kid.
His hand shook as he dialed her number.
It rang twice.
"Hey." His voice came out rougher than he meant it to.
"Hi."
That single word told him everything. Flat. Hollow. Like she'd been crying and had nothing left.
"Hope you're okay." He pressed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes. "I just saw—look, whatever's going on, don't let them get to you, alright?"
Silence stretched between them.
"Okay." Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry I caused it."
"No." The word came out sharp. "I'm sorry about it. I will get to the bottom of this. You're in this mess because of me."
He hung up before she could argue, before she could take the blame for something that wasn't hers to carry. His fingers flew across the screen, pulling up contacts. Lawyers. PR people. Anyone who could make this disappear.
Three calls later, the article was flagged. Five calls later, it was down.
But the damage was already done. Screenshots lived forever.
---
Across town, Lydia Larson sat in her study, iPad propped against a crystal tumbler of bourbon she hadn't touched.
She wasn't surprised. Not really.
Angry? Absolutely.
She'd warned Max. Told him this girl would be trouble, that rushing into marriage was reckless, that the press would eat them alive. And here it was. Proof.
She set the iPad down and picked up her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found the number she needed.
Senator Whitmore. Vivan's father.
They'd talked about this before—casually, hypothetically. Their children would make a strong match. Political power, old money, the right kind of alliance.
It was time to make it official.
She typed out a message, her manicured nails clicking against the screen: *We should meet. I think it's time we discussed Max and Vivian's future.*
---
Ethan swirled his wine, watching the amber liquid catch the light.
Perfect.
The article had done exactly what he'd intended. Chaos. Doubt. A c***k in Max's pristine image.
He'd paid well for it—some freelance journalist hungry enough to print anything if the price was right. Anonymous tip. Unnamed sources. The beauty of modern media was that truth didn't matter. Perception did.
He leaned back in his chair, feet propped on his desk, and smiled.
Max thought he was untouchable. Thought he could swoop in, play hero, marry some nobody, and ride off into the sunset.
But Ethan had been in this game longer. He knew how to play dirty.
And he was just getting started.
He raised his glass to the empty room. "To breaking bonds."
---
Sharon sat on the edge of the playground, knees pulled to her chest, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks.
"It's not true," she choked out, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. "Leave me alone."
"Yes it is!" Mia Preston stood over her, hands on her hips, a ring of other kids behind her like a pack of wolves. "Your mom's a gold digger. My mom said so. She married Max for his money."
"She didn't!" Sharon's voice pitched higher, desperate.
"Gold digger, gold digger," another kid sang, the chant picking up momentum. They made exaggerated kissy faces, pretending to count money, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Sharon buried her face in her arms.
"Enough!"
Ms. Patterson's voice cut through the noise like a whip. The kids scattered, suddenly fascinated by the swings and monkey bars.
The teacher crouched down, her hand gentle on Sharon's shoulder. "Come on, sweetie. Let's go to my office."
Sharon didn't resist. She let herself be led inside, away from the stares and whispers, but the words followed her anyway.
*Gold digger. Fake. Liar.*
---
In her office, Ms. Patterson handed Sharon a juice box and a tissue, then stepped into the hallway to make the call.
"Hello, Mrs. Larson? This is Ms. Patterson from Westbridge Elementary. I need you to come to the school."
Gia's voice shot up an octave. "Is Sharon okay?"
She could hear the panic, the mother's instinct kicking into overdrive.
"Yes, just come." She couldn't explain this over the phone. "Please."
The line went dead.
---
That evening, Gia sat on the couch, arms wrapped around herself like she could hold the pieces together through sheer will.
The door opened.
Max stepped inside, still in his suit, tie loosened, looking like he'd aged a year in a day.
"How is she?" His voice was low, urgent.
"She managed to fall asleep." Gia didn't look at him. Couldn't. If she did, she'd break. "Finally."
"How could they do that to her?" His hands curled into fists. "She's just a child."
"I know." The words came out strangled. Her throat burned. "I know, and it's my fault. I should've—"
Her voice cracked, and the tears came. Ugly, gasping sobs she'd been holding back for hours.
Max crossed the room in three strides and pulled her into his arms.
"It's okay," he murmured against her hair, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back. "I've got you. It's okay."
But it wasn't. And they both knew it.
"I'll go to the school tomorrow," he said. "I'll handle it."
"No." Gia pulled back, wiping her face with shaking hands. "You know what? Let's just annul this marriage. Please." She looked up at him, desperate. "Before it gets worse. Before Sharon—"
"No."
"Max—"
"No." He cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "I will protect both of you. You're my responsibility now."
"That's not fair to you—"
"I don't care about fair." His jaw set, stubborn and immovable. "I'm not walking away."
He pulled her back into his chest, holding her tighter this time, like he could shield her from the world by sheer force of will.
And for a moment—just a moment—she let herself believe he could.
- Writer
