[Caspian’s POV]
The tabloid hits at seven-fourteen in the morning.
Sebastian sends the link without commentary—just the URL and a single word: Brace.
I'm making coffee when I open it. The headline screams across my screen: ROTHWELL BABY MAMA'S WILD GRADUATION NIGHT—EXCLUSIVE WITNESS SPEAKS OUT.
A woman I've never seen—blonde, vaguely familiar in that society-adjacent way—claims she "partied with" Serena on graduation night.
The language implies multiple men, multiple encounters. Careful enough to avoid libel but devastating in its insinuation. The comments section is already vicious, strangers dissecting a woman they've never met.
My father's fingerprints are everywhere.
I know because I recognize the pattern. The carefully timed release. The manufactured witness. The poison dripped with plausible deniability.
And I know because three days ago, I almost believed it myself. Those photographs made me doubt her. My father planted seeds of suspicion, watched them take root, and now he's fertilizing them with public humiliation.
Serena appears in the kitchen doorway, sleep-rumpled and soft. She sees my face and stops.
"What happened?"
I hand her my phone. Watch her expression shift from confusion to recognition to something like her heart being carved out.
She scrolls through the article, fingers trembling against the screen. The color drains from her face with each paragraph.
"This isn't true." Her voice is barely audible. "None of this is true."
"I know." The words feel hollow. "Serena, I know."
My phone rings. Aria's school.
Serena's eyes meet mine, and I see the moment she understands this is just beginning.
The principal's voice is carefully neutral. "Mr. Rothwell, I'm calling about Aria. There's been an incident."
My stomach drops. "Is she hurt?"
"Physically, she's fine. But during morning circle, another child made comments about things they'd heard from their parents." A delicate pause. "About Aria's mother being 'in trouble.'"
Six years old, and my father's war has reached her classroom. My pulse hammers with barely contained rage.
"What did Aria do?"
"She's been very quiet since. Won't engage with activities."
I'm already grabbing my keys. "I'm on my way."
Serena intercepts me. "What's wrong with Aria?"
I tell her. Watch the devastation bloom across her features—worse than the tabloid. Her daughter caught in Rothwell dysfunction.
"I'll come with you—"
"No." The word comes out hard. "If you show up now, photographers will follow. Let me handle this one."
The trust costs her. Finally, she nods. "Bring her home safe."
* * *
Aria sits in the principal's office with her stuffed elephant clutched against her chest. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, and she doesn't look up when I enter.
"Hey, Aria the Terrible." I crouch to her level. "Ready to go home?"
She shakes her head. "Is Mommy in trouble?"
My chest constricts. "No, baby. Mommy's not in trouble."
"But Tyler said his mommy said—"
"Tyler's mommy doesn't know your mommy. Sometimes people say things about other people that aren't true. It's not nice, and it's not okay."
Aria processes this with the gravity only children can muster. "Like when Madison said I don't have a daddy?"
The question hits like a physical blow.
"You have a daddy," I say, rough. "You have me."
She looks up, uncertainty giving way to tentative hope.
"Can we go home now?"
"Yes." I scoop her up, let her bury her face against my shoulder. "Let's go home."
The guilt compounds with every mile.
My father manufactured this attack. Paid someone to lie about Serena. Ensured those lies would trickle down to children's ears, poison a six-year-old's morning.
And I believed him. For one moment, holding those photographs, I doubted the woman I claim to love.
Serena meets us at the door. Aria launches herself into her mother's embrace.
"I want ice cream," Aria mumbles.
"After lunch, baby."
"And can we watch the princess movie?"
"Whatever you want."
Serena carries her toward the living room, but pauses at the threshold. Her eyes find mine—gratitude, grief, and something that might be forgiveness struggling to surface.
"Thank you," she mouths.
I nod. It's not enough.
* * *
Victoria chooses an upscale café in Tribeca—glass walls, exposed brick, the kind of place designed for staged reconciliations. I arrive with singular purpose: this ends tonight.
She's already seated when I arrive, ivory cashmere catching the light. A photographer across the street has abandoned all pretense of concealment.
"You look terrible," Victoria observes. "Rough morning?"
"My daughter was bullied at school because of a tabloid story my father planted." I don't bother with pleasantries. "Rough doesn't cover it."
Something flickers across her face. "I saw the article. For what it's worth, I know it's garbage."
"It's worth very little at the moment."
She stirs honey into her tea, avoiding my eyes. "I have news. Edward called this morning. He's moving forward with the trust provision."
My blood chills. "Explain."
"The morality clause. Conduct detrimental to family reputation." She sets down her spoon. "If you don't publicly commit to the reconciliation narrative within the month, he's filing for complete disinheritance."
Complete disinheritance. Not a reduction, not a warning shot. Total erasure from the Rothwell legacy.
"He can't prove conduct violations."
"He doesn't need to prove them. Just needs enough board members to believe them." Victoria's voice is almost gentle. "The tabloid story. The photograph implications. Your refusal to cooperate. It adds up to a pattern."
My father has been building this case for weeks. Every leaked photo, every planted story—bricks in a wall to bury me.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Victoria's composure cracks. She looks away, at anything but my face.
"Because I'm not proud of my part in this." The words come slowly. "When Edward approached me six weeks ago, when he offered investment in my boutique, connections I desperately need. Promised he'd make me relevant again if I played the devoted ex-girlfriend."
"And you agreed."
"I'm desperate, Caspian." Her eyes meet mine, raw beneath the polish. "Do you know what it's like to watch everything you built crumble? To need something so badly you'll compromise yourself to get it?"
The irony isn't lost on me. I understand desperation now. I've watched Serena fight for survival in ways I never had to.
"He uses everyone's desperation as leverage," I say quietly. "Find the pressure point and press until people bend."
"Or break." Victoria nods. "I'm not breaking for him anymore. I'm telling you because you loved me once. And I was awful to someone who didn't deserve it."
Serena. She means Serena.
"What do you want, Victoria?"
"I want to stop being a pawn. I want to build something actually mine, not something his money buys." She pauses. "I want to not hate myself when I look in the mirror."
"Once this is over, it’s the last time we meet publicly," I tell her. "This charade is over."
Victoria nods, unsurprised. "I figured. We can’t even have an engaging conversation without the pretence overshadowing it."
I don't deny it.
When I rise to leave, Victoria's voice stops me.
"Be careful, Caspian. Your father doesn't lose gracefully. And he's already proven he'll destroy anyone in his path."
The warning settles into my bones as I walk out.
* * *
The penthouse is quiet when I return. Serena sits on the couch with Aria asleep against her shoulder, the princess movie playing on mute. She looks exhausted.
I sink down beside them, careful not to wake our daughter.
"How was it?" Serena asks quietly.
"Illuminating." I pull out my phone, type the message I've been composing since the café. Show her the screen before sending:
Dad's threatening complete disinheritance. Victoria's done being used. We need to talk.
"Everything," she says. "We tell each other everything now."
"Everything," I agree.
I hit send.
The real war is just beginning.