The hot water had scoured the day from my skin. The scent of jasmine and sandalwood from my body wash hung in the steam-filled bathroom, a fragrant shield against the memory of Liam's desperation and Diana's venom. Wrapped in a plush robe, I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of my bedroom, watching the city's constellations glitter coldly in the distance. My father was safe, for now. The article was perfect. The air in my lungs felt clean.
Peace. It was a fragile, unfamiliar currency, and for one single, breathless moment, I was rich with it.
Then, my phone erupted on the nightstand.
Not a ring, but the frantic, staccato buzz of multiple texts arriving at once. I knew that pattern. Sienna.
A sigh escaped me, a small, weary sound in the quiet room. I padded over, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor.
The screen glowed, a beacon of impending chaos.
Sienna: U awake?
Sienna: Look at this. Now.
Sienna: CHLOE. IS. LIVE.
Sienna: She's fucking lost it. She's talking about you.
The peace shattered. A cold, sharp stone dropped into the warm pool of my calm. I clicked the link.
The screen shifted to a live stream. Chloe was not in her opulent bedroom. Although she blurred her background, I could recognise the setting. She was in the smaller, guest room—the East Wing. The message was subtle but clear: she had been demoted, and she wanted the world to know it.
Her face was a mess. Mascara bled in dark trails down her cheeks, and her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed pools of pure, unadulterated rage. The golden, polished girl was gone, stripped away to reveal the raw, festering wound beneath.
"...and everyone feels so sorry for her!" she was snarling, her voice hoarse, her words slurring slightly. Was she drunk? "Poor little Elara, the victim! But she's a fucking ice queen! A calculating bitch!"
I stood frozen, the phone a cold weight in my hand.
"She was probably spreading her legs for that monster Kaelen Vancourt for months! This was all a setup! They wanted the companies, and me and Liam, we were in the way!" She leaned into the camera, her face distorting. "He's not a man, he's a shark! And she's his… his willing little bait! Did you know she's probably infertile? Karma's a bitch! With everything that she has done, I'm pretty sure she won't be able to even keep a baby—"
The air left my lungs. The world tilted. The ghost of a flutter, a life erased, became a searing brand in my gut. Even unknowingly, she had gone there. She had reached into the most sacred, broken part of my past and torn it out for the world to gawk at.
The live chat was a frenzied, scrolling warzone. It was a separate battlefield. But it probably worked in Chloe's favour, inviting more and more viewers.
User123: OMG CHLOE SPILL THE TEA!! 🍵
TruthSeeker: She's not lying! Elara Sterling has always looked like a smug bitch! #TeamChloe
Justice4Liam: They set Liam up! I've met Liam before! He is gentle, kind and nice!
But they were not unchallenged.
FinanceBro: This is pathetic. Where's the proof? Just a drunk girl crying.
SiennaTheRealOne: You're a disgusting liar, Chloe. Everyone saw the video. You're the side piece who got caught. #TeamElara
InvestorAlly: Sterling-Vancourt stock is up. That's all the proof I need. This is just noise.
Hearts and laughing emojis, curses and demands for evidence—it was a civil war playing out in real-time, a toxic river of support and vitriol flowing beside her unhinged performance. A digital coliseum, and I was the gladiator forced to watch from the stands.
My hands trembled. A white-hot, primal fury threatened to consume me. I wanted to scream. I wanted to smash the phone against the wall.
Then, another notification cut through the chaos. Not a text. A direct request for a private, encrypted video call.
From Kaelen.
I accepted without a second thought.
His face filled my screen. He was in his study, the dark shelves of books a stark backdrop. The cold blue light of his monitor reflected in his gunmetal eyes, and I could see the faint, moving image of Chloe's stream on his own screen. He was already watching.
"Elara." His voice was a low, steady rumble, an anchor in my sudden storm.
"She's… she's talking about the…" I couldn't say it. The words wouldn't form.
"I heard." Two words, laced with a venom so cold it made my own rage feel hot and impotent. "It's a contained explosion. Messy, but ultimately manageable. We have two options. We let her rant herself into oblivion, discrediting herself with her own hysteria. Or we release a pre-emptive statement now, cutting her off."
I watched the screen. The chat was a blur of #TeamChloe and #TeamElara, a meaningless, screaming stalemate. Chloe was now sobbing, a grotesque performance of self-pity. "They took everything from me! My love, my home, my father!"
My father. The words were a final, unforgivable strike.
A terrifying calm descended over me. The fury didn't vanish; it crystallized into something sharp, precise, and lethal. We couldn't win the war in the comments. We had to change the battlefield.
"No," I said, my voice eerily steady. "We don't give her the dignity of a direct response. That would make her a threat. We make her look insignificant."
Kaelen was silent for a beat, his gaze intense on mine through the screen. "What's your play?"
"Our official social media accounts. The Sterling Group and Vancourt Holdings. In exactly ten minutes, when her viewership peaks." I took a deep breath, the plan forming with perfect, brutal clarity. "We don't post a statement. We each post a single photo. The one from the press conference today. The one where we're holding hands, looking at the crowd. United. Unshakeable."
I met his eyes, seeing the understanding and approval ignite within them.
"We just need a one word caption, no explanations," I finished.
He didn't even need me to say it. A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips, a predator acknowledging a worthy huntress. "Forward."
"Exactly."
My fingers flew across the screen, not to the Sterling Group's social media manager, but directly to the head of corporate communications—a man who reported to my father, not Diana. I gave the order, my message clear and absolute.
Then, I waited.
I watched Chloe's pathetic spectacle for another eight minutes. The viewership counter ticked up. The chat war raged on, a chaotic, ugly symphony. She was the main event.
And then, at the ten-minute mark, we pulled the curtain.
A notification popped up on my screen. The Sterling Group had posted. A second later, Vancourt Holdings did the same.
The photo was stunning. It was all sharp lines and fierce determination—Kaelen's powerful profile, my unwavering gaze, our hands locked together on the podium like a single, unbreakable weapon. And over it, that single, devastating word: Forward.
It was a declaration. A dismissal. A new epoch.
I switched back to Chloe's stream. For a moment, the #TeamChloe comments still sputtered, defiant but confused. "Don't listen to them, queen!" "They're just trying to silence you!"
But they were being overwhelmed, not by arguments, but by a wave of sheer, dominant presence.
FinanceBro: FORWARD. Mic drop. This livestream is over.
SiennaTheRealOne: #TeamFuture 👑 That's how you handle trash. Sorry Chloe, you're yesterday's news.
InvestorAlly: Leadership looks like that. Desperation looks like this. Case closed.
The #TeamElara and #TeamFuture comments came faster, a coordinated tsunami of support that washed away the dissent. They weren't just defending; they were celebrating. The viewership counter began to plummet. Chloe saw it. Her rant faltered, her face crumbling as she stared at her dying audience, realizing the spotlight had not just dimmed—it had swung to a bigger, brighter stage.
I looked back at the video call with Kaelen. He was watching me, his head tilted, his intense gaze fixed on my face. The grim line of his mouth had softened. A slow, devastating smile was spreading across his features, a rare and genuine expression that reached his eyes, turning them from gunmetal to silver.
A matching smile, born of triumph and a fierce, shared understanding, touched my own lips. We didn't say a word. We didn't need to.
In the silence of my bedroom and the quiet of his study, with the ghost of Chloe's fading voice as our background noise, we simply smiled at each other. It was the smile of co-conspirators, of partners, of a king and queen who had just checkmated their opponent without moving a single pawn.
"Good night, Mr Vancourt."
"Sleep well tonight, Ms Sterling."
We ended the call.
Setting my phone down on the nightstand, screen dark, I let the profound silence wash over me. It wasn't just peace.
It was power.