Adison’s POV
My office carries that peculiar quiet that feels like waiting. Like the air before lightning strikes—charged, tense, holding its breath for whatever comes next.
Violet sits across from my desk, her leather notebook open on her lap. She looks different than she did three days ago. More anchored. Like she's found solid ground beneath feet that have been slipping for years.
"Tomorrow's preparations are complete." She taps her pen against the page, where I can see lists written in that elegant script of hers. "Zachary and I will be positioned to deflect hostile questions. Everything's choreographed to perfection."
"Good." I lean back in my chair, studying her face for signs of nerves I'm not finding. "But Violet—loaded questions will come. Journalists looking for cracks in the narrative. You need to stay restrained."
"I know." Her chin lifts slightly, defensive pride flickering through. "Jake and you have rehearsed your responses. I won't interfere with the strategy."
"Control is our weapon now." I say it as much to remind myself as her. "We dictate this story, or Walter does. There's no middle ground."
She nods, something fierce settling into her expression. "I won't let you down."
The words land somewhere tender in my chest. Two weeks ago, she was the girl who tried to seduce my fiancé. Now she's the ally I'm trusting with my reputation, my company, my future.
The door crashes open without warning.
Zachary bursts through, and fury radiates from every line of his body. His tie is loosened—unusual for him—and his jaw is tight enough that I can see the muscle flexing beneath skin.
"Walter made his move." The words tear out sharp enough to cut. "Hours ago, apparently."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Social media is flooding with rumors." He crosses the room in three strides, his hands gripping his tablet like he wants to crush it. "Speculation about your pregnancy. Resurfaced gala photos with Jake. Whispers about some elevator video the existence of which we concealed."
The room tilts sideways. I grip the edge of my desk, forcing myself to breathe normally.
"That's impossible." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Walter promised me a week. We still have four days before—"
"Look." Zachary shoves the tablet at me, and the screen fills my vision.
Hashtags multiply like cancer cells.
#WardHeiressPregnant
#ManhattanScandal
#CowboyGoldDigger
Tweet after tweet, speculation spiraling beyond anything we could possibly contain now.
Photos I recognize from the gala months ago—Jake's hand on my waist, the way we looked at each other like the rest of the room didn't exist. Someone has circled my stomach in one image, drawing arrows toward a curve that's barely visible but enough to fuel conspiracy.
"Jesus." The word scrapes out hollow. "This is catastrophic."
"Catastrophic timing." Zachary's voice cuts through my shock with precision sharp enough to draw blood. "The press conference is tomorrow. We were supposed to control this narrative. Now we're playing defense before we've even taken the field."
Violet speaks into the stunned silence, her voice carrying something that sounds like resignation. "I'm not surprised."
We both turn to stare at her.
"My brother never honors agreements." She sets her notebook down with careful precision, like she's handling something that might shatter. "He made you feel safe, Adison. Gave you a timeline so you'd relax your guard. Meanwhile, he was orchestrating chaos behind your back."
The assessment lands with the weight of lived experience. She knows Walter in ways I'm only beginning to understand—the manipulation wrapped in courtesy, the threats disguised as patience.
Something shifts in the air.
Zachary pivots toward Violet so fast I barely register the movement. His hands grip the armrests of her chair, caging her in place. His face is inches from hers, and the fury in his expression makes my breath catch.
"How else could he have known?" The accusation comes out razor-edged, each word landing like an indictment. "How else could Walter have known to strike the day before our press conference unless someone told him the exact timing?"
Violet's expression crumbles into something raw. Wounded.
"Unless you're still loyal to your family after all." Zachary continues, and I watch horror bloom across Violet's face with each word. "Unless this whole performance has been an elaborate setup from the beginning."
"Zachary." I'm already moving, already reaching for his shoulder. "Stop."
But the damage is radiating outward like cracks in glass.
"I didn't—" Violet's voice breaks on the defense. Tears shine in her eyes, threatening to spill. "I would never—"
I pull Zachary back physically, my hand fisting in his jacket with enough force to make him stumble. "Regain control. Right now."
He straightens, but the fury doesn't leave his expression. Just redirects inward, turning cold and contained in ways that feel more dangerous than the explosion.
"Violet is with us." I force authority into my voice, commanding rather than requesting. "Not against us. She's proven that repeatedly."
But the words land too late.
Violet rises from her chair, her whole body trembling with something that looks like rage and devastation fighting for dominance. Tears track down her face, and she doesn't bother wiping them away.
"You refuse to see how hard I'm trying." The words tear out jagged and desperate. "I've done everything—everything—to prove I'm not who you think I am. But it doesn't matter, does it? I'll always be Walter's sister first."
She grabs her notebook off the desk—that leather-bound collection of meticulous notes she took for his benefit, pages filled with elegant handwriting and strategic observations—and throws it at him.
It hits his chest and falls to the floor, pages splaying open like broken wings.
"Violet, wait—" I start, already reaching for her.
But she's gone. Out the door before I can finish the sentence, her footsteps echoing down the hallway in rhythm with the door slamming shut behind her.
The silence that follows feels heavier than the chaos that preceded it.
I turn on Zachary slowly, letting fury build in my chest until it's the only thing I can feel. "What the hell just happened?"
He stands there, staring at the notebook on the floor like it's evidence of something he can't quite process. His jaw works, but no words emerge.
"I have never—" I step closer, forcing him to meet my eyes. "Never seen you lose control like that. What were you thinking?"
His silence holds no answers. No excuses. No defense.
Just the terrible recognition that he's destroyed something fragile we were all trying to build together.
And I don't know if any of us can repair it before tomorrow tears us apart completely.