The leak came from Laurent. Of course it did.
The evidence arrives via a journalist who apparently believes in professional courtesy—or maybe just wants a quote before publishing. She emails me the source material: a draft email Miles never sent, written the night I first asked him to fake date me.
I read it three times, each pass stripping another layer of protective denial from my chest.
"She asked me to pretend to be her boyfriend, Tom. Like some elaborate rom-com setup where the best friend gets promoted to love interest except there's no promotion because it's fake. And I said yes. Obviously I said yes. When have I ever said no to her?
The thing is—I'd do anything to be close to her. Even if it means pretending to be something I'm not. Even if it means watching her eventually end up with some merger-approved Ken doll while I smile and fix her spreadsheets.
Hurting for her is better than not being near her at all. God, that's pathetic. Don't reply to this. I'm not sending it."
He never sent it. The message sat in his drafts like a time bomb, waiting for someone with enough resources and resentment to dig it up. Someone like my father.
I should be furious about the exposure. About the headlines screaming VALMONT HEIRESS FAKES RELATIONSHIP TO SECURE INHERITANCE across every business publication. About the board members sharpening their knives.
Instead, all I can see is Miles's words: Hurting for her is better than not being near her at all.
He agreed to this insane arrangement knowing it would destroy him. Knowing he'd have to perform intimacy with someone he actually loved while pretending it meant nothing. He walked into that fire with his eyes open because being my fake boyfriend was better than being nothing at all.
My phone buzzes. Beatrice's summons arrives with the subtlety of a court order: "The estate. One hour. Damage control."
The estate's study smells like expensive disappointment. Beatrice sits behind her desk like a general reviewing casualties, folder open, expression carved from marble.
"The situation is salvageable," she announces. "Barely. But it requires decisive action."
"What kind of action?"
"Announce an engagement to Dorian. Immediately." She slides a press release across the desk. "Reframe the Miles situation as a misunderstanding—a close friendship that tabloids sensationalized. The merger proceeds as planned, the board calms, and this becomes a footnote."
I stare at the document. The words blur together: pleased to announce... strategic partnership... bright future...
"No."
Beatrice's eyebrow lifts. "Excuse me?"
"No." The word tastes like freedom and terror combined. "I'm done trading one lie for another. I spent months pretending with Miles, and somewhere in that pretending, we became real. I'm not going to fix that by pretending with someone else."
"Aurelia, be practical—"
"I've been practical my entire life. Practical got me a fake relationship, a leaked scandal, and a board that thinks I'm either a manipulator or an idiot." I push the press release back toward her. "I'm done being practical. I want to be honest."
The door opens before Beatrice can respond.
Miles stands in the doorway looking like he hasn't slept since the elevator—rumpled, devastated, eyes red-rimmed in a way that makes my chest cavity attempt origami.
"I came to apologize." His voice is hoarse. "The draft—I forgot it existed. I wrote it that first night and never deleted it, and I didn't think—" He swallows hard. "This is my fault. All of it."
"It's not your fault someone hired investigators to dig through your private emails."
"But if I hadn't written it—"
"Then my father would have found something else." I cross toward him. "Laurent wanted this exposed. He would have manufactured evidence if he couldn't find real ammunition."
Miles shakes his head. "I should take the blame. Publicly. Tell everyone I manipulated you into the arrangement, that you had no idea it was fake, that I—"
"Stop." I grab his hand, and he flinches like contact burns. "You're not falling on any swords for me. We did this together. We face the consequences together."
"The consequences are your inheritance, Rae. Your company. Everything you've worked for."
"And you think I'd trade that for throwing you under the bus?" My voice cracks. "You really think I'd choose money over you?"
Before he can answer, my phone buzzes with a news alert that makes both of us freeze.
DORIAN HALE SCHEDULES EMERGENCY PRESS CONFERENCE RE: VALMONT SCANDAL.
We watch the livestream on Beatrice's tablet, all three of us crowded around the screen.
Dorian stands behind a podium looking uncharacteristically serious, his usual polish replaced with something rawer.
"I'm here to address the recent coverage of Aurelia Valmont's personal relationships," he begins. "Specifically, to call out what this actually is: a violation of privacy orchestrated by someone with a financial interest in destabilizing her succession."
The reporters erupt with questions. Dorian raises a hand.
"Strategic relationships are hardly unique to our world. Half the marriages in this room started as networking opportunities. The difference is that when it happens to families like ours, it's called 'tradition.' When it happens to a woman trying to secure her own future, it's called 'scandal.'"
His jaw tightens. "The leak wasn't journalism. It was sabotage. And I won't be party to anyone's attempt to use it against her."
The conference ends. Beatrice sets down the tablet with an expression I can't read.
"Well," she says. "That was unexpected."
Two hours later, I stand in Florisight's warehouse, facing journalists crammed between buckets of roses. Miles hovers behind me, refusing to leave despite my insistence.
"I'm not letting you do this alone," he said. "Whatever happens next, we face it together."
So here we are. Together. Terrified. About to blow up everything.
I step up to the improvised podium—a shipping crate with a tablecloth—and face the cameras.
"I'm going to tell you the truth," I begin. "The whole truth, without PR spin. You can decide what to do with it."
The reporters lean forward.
"The arrangement with Miles started as strategy. My grandmother required me to demonstrate relationship stability before naming me her successor. I panicked, I lied, and I asked my best friend to pretend to be my boyfriend." I take a breath. "That part of the story is accurate."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd.
"What the coverage didn't mention is what happened after. How the pretending stopped being pretend. How I fell in love with someone I'd been too scared to see clearly for years. How the arrangement that started as performance became the most real thing I've ever experienced."
I find Miles's eyes. He's watching me with an expression that could power cities.
"How something begins doesn't determine how it ends. I started this relationship as a lie. I'm ending this press conference with the truth: I love him. Not for inheritance requirements or board approval. I love him because he's the only person who's ever seen me clearly and stayed anyway."
The questions explode—about the board, about Dorian, about what happens next. I answer what I can and deflect what I can't.
But through all of it, I keep finding Miles's face in the crowd.
And for the first time in months, the truth doesn't feel like a weapon.
It feels like the beginning of something real.