Jake’s POV
The conference room blazes with light that makes my eyes water.
I follow Adison to the table positioned before rows of journalists, and every step feels like walking into enemy territory. Cameras track our movement with predatory precision, lenses clicking and whirring like insects I can't swat away.
This is her world. Not mine.
The ranch never felt like this—exposed, dissected, every breath cataloged for public consumption. Out there, I know exactly who I am. Here, I'm just the cowboy everyone's trying to figure out how to label.
We sit, and Adison's hand finds mine immediately. Her fingers lace through my own with practiced grace, and the cameras explode in a cascade of shutters. The sound pounds against my ears like thunder trapped indoors.
But her touch steadies something fractured in my chest. Reminds me why we're doing this.
She begins speaking, her voice carrying that measured confidence I've watched her wield in boardrooms and strategy sessions. "During the darkest period of my life, Jake was there."
The words wrap around me like shelter. I watch her profile as she speaks, cataloging the way her chin lifts with certainty, the way she owns this moment despite everything threatening to tear us apart.
"My father brought us together," she continues, and I feel the weight of Richard's ghost settling over this room. "What grew between us became love. Real love. The kind that builds futures instead of destroying them."
Her thumb traces circles against my palm. Grounding herself. Grounding me.
"We're engaged now." She pauses, letting that settle. "And we're expecting a child. I'm three months along."
The admission lands like a bomb, and I watch it detonate across the room. Whispers erupt. Cameras pivot. Someone gasps audibly.
Adison turns to me then, her public composure cracking just enough to let concern bleed through. She leans close, her voice dropping to a whisper only I can hear. "Are you alright?"
Zachary's voice hums through the earpiece, steady and professional. "You're doing well. Both of you. Stay the course."
I manage a nod, even though my pulse is racing and every instinct screams to get her out of here. Away from the scrutiny. Somewhere I can actually protect her instead of sitting here like decoration.
"The engagement preceded the pregnancy," Adison clarifies for the room, her voice strengthening again. "I want that perfectly clear before we open the floor to questions."
Hands shoot up like weeds.
"Mr. Sullivan, what's your full name and occupation?"
The question comes from a woman in the second row, her pen poised over a notebook like she's documenting evidence.
"Jake Sullivan." My voice comes out rougher than I thought. "I own and operate a cattle ranch in West Texas."
"Your age?"
"Forty-three."
The number lands heavy. I watch it register across faces, see the mental calculations happening behind professional masks. Twenty-two years older than Adison. Old enough to be her father, just like someone will definitely inevitably point out.
"Mr. Sullivan, will you be selling your ranch and relocating to Manhattan permanently?"
The question hits somewhere tender. I open my mouth, but Adison intercepts before I can fumble through an answer I don't actually have.
"Neither of us will be sacrificing our lives for the other." Her voice carries absolute conviction. "We're building a future together that honors both our worlds."
The words sound confident. Rehearsed. Perfect for public consumption.
But they land hollow in my chest.
Because the truth is, we haven't actually decided where we're raising our child. Haven't discussed whether that baby grows up on Texas soil or Manhattan concrete. The uncertainty gnaws at something deep—the realization that love doesn't automatically solve logistics.
I squeeze her hand tighter, trying to push the doubt away.
Then Walter's voice cuts through the murmur of journalists like a blade.
"Doesn't Miss Ward find it somewhat inappropriate?" His tone is pleasant. Poisonous. "Marrying her father's friend—a man old enough to be her own father?"
The room crystallizes into silence.
Every camera swivels toward us. Every pen stops moving. The air itself holds its breath, waiting for the explosion.
Adison's chin lifts, and I feel her whole body tense beside me. She's preparing to fight—to defend us against the accusation wrapped in courtesy.
But another voice rings out first.
"Walter." Violet's voice carries across the room with surprising steadiness. "Is meddling in other people's personal lives your actual hobby? Or is it simply evidence that you have nothing meaningful to do with your own existence?"
Laughter ripples through the journalists. Nervous at first, then genuine. Someone in the back actually chuckles, and the sound breaks the tension like glass shattering.
Zachary's voice crackles furious through my earpiece. "Violet, what the hell are you doing? There will be consequences for this."
Her response comes calm and certain. "I'll take whatever comes, Zachary. Adison and Jake don't deserve this attack."
Something shifts in my chest watching Violet stand up to Walter.
Two weeks ago, she was the girl playing games at the ranch, trying to prove something to all the wrong people. Now she's channeling that same fire in a direction that actually matters. Protecting instead of destroying. Choosing courage over comfort.
That takes guts I'm not sure I gave her credit for.
I glance at Adison, and her expression mirrors what I'm feeling. Pride mixed with something like hope. The recognition that we're not standing alone against Walter's cruelty.
Walter's not winning this battle. Not today. His attack landed exactly wrong—petty instead of damaging, revealing more about his character than ours. The journalists see it. We see it. Even he probably sees it, which makes the failure sting worse.
And watching Violet fight for us despite everything, I understand something fundamental: this is where I belong. Not hiding at the ranch while Adison faces Manhattan's warfare alone. Right here, beside her, matching her strength with my own.
I settle back in my chair, her hand still gripped in mine, and commit to seeing this through. Whatever comes next, we face it together. That's not negotiable anymore.
Even when every instinct I have wants to carry her somewhere safe, I'm learning that standing beside her while she fights is its own kind of protection.